


The Twin

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Don't copy to another site, Flirting, Grief/Mourning, M/M, NOT SHERLOCK OR JOHN, Romance, Sex, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17433014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: “You're a twin.” Sherlock mentally kicked himself. Obviously. “That's why you laughed when I said, it's never twins.”“Sometimes, it is twins.” James chuckled.Before Sherlock ever met John Watson, he met his twin-- and fell in love.





	1. Sometimes It Is Twins

Sherlock Holmes considered the doctor who knelt on the ground, examining the corpse. James Watson was new to Scotland Yard, having moved to London from Police Scotland, Edinburgh, where he had served in thecoroner’s office for three years. He had joined the Met’s forensics team three months earlier, proving himself an invaluable member of the team.

“Time of death, two to three hours ago,” Watson said. “No external wounds, some contusions.”

“From falling, or a struggle?” Lestrade asked.

“No evidence of a struggle,” he replied. “My guess would be a fall, not a great distance, possibly after an aneurysm or a myocardial event. Drugs may have been involved. The autopsy will show.”

Sherlock lingered as the body was bagged and loaded in the ambulance. The case was a three at best, hardly worth the time it took to put on his Belstaff and take a cab to the scene. It was the doctor who had arrested Sherlock’s attention.

They’d met eight weeks ago at another crime scene. At first glance, Sherlock had thought him attractive, but ordinary. He was, if the detective were honest with himself, close to his ideal type: short, blond, assertive. He could not explain what it was about shorter-than-average men that attracted him. Perhaps it was the controlled aggressiveness many of them displayed, like a small terrier who carried himself like a pit bull. He appreciated men who took charge of a situation and didn’t tolerate fools— without being twats about it. There was a dignity about James Watson, he observed, as well as a self-depreciating sense of humour that showed the man’s confidence.

Blond hair was just a kink, he supposed. He himself was dark-haired with light eyes, a scion of both Celtic and Germanic heritage. Blond men had a god-like glow to them, he’d always thought. He’d never been attracted to darker men, and red-heads were inevitably petulant and insecure. Blond men were sexy and self-assured. James Watson stood like a Viking, no matter that his height was below average. He would have excelled at pillage and plunder, Sherlock thought. He found himself longing to be plundered.

Watson’s open admiration for his deductive talents had helped things along. Sometimes Sherlock woke up at night, hearing James’s voice in his dreams: _Amazing! Brilliant!_ No one at Scotland Yard had ever said such things to him. More usual were the insults: _Freak! Sociopath!_

He could not pinpoint the exact moment when he knew he was no longer in control of his emotions. At some point he simply realised that he had left guarded admiration far behind, and was now barely able to take his eyes off the object of his longing. He blushed to think of himself as _pining_ , but that’s what it was. He longed, lusted, imagined, _fantasised_. In the man’s presence, he stumbled over his words, felt his face flush. The great Sherlock Holmes, master of every crime scene, now felt like a schoolboy, tongue-tied, red-faced, and shy.

He waited as the doctor packed up his equipment, trying to think of something he could ask him, but failed to come up with anything that didn’t seem obvious or spurious.

 _If I were a normal person, I could simply ask him to have a drink with me. But I'm not normal, and I don't have friends._ He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for, lingering as things were wrapping up. Whatever else it might be, it was certainly hopeless _._

Watson stood and pulled off his latex gloves. For a few minutes he spoke with Lestrade, who finally said his goodbyes and got in the squad car with Donovan.

Turning and noticing Sherlock, he smiled. “Feel like stopping for a pint?” he asked, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

 _God, that brilliant smile,_ thought Sherlock. _Those laughing eyes._ “Yes,” he said. It sounded wrong. Should have said _sounds good_ or _sure_ or even simply _okay_. He despaired of ever sounding like a normal man.

“Good. I don’t like drinking alone.” James Watson winked.

 _Winked. He winked at me! Do men wink at one another? If a man winks at another man, what does it mean?_ He turned the moment over in his mind in the same manner that a young girl with a crush dissects a boy’s offhand remark. He might have told himself that James was just the kind of person who winked at people, but he had not observed him winking at Lestrade or Hopkins or Brown or any other NSY personnel.

Or perhaps James had said something that warranted a wink. _I don’t like drinking alone._ What could be the hidden meaning behind these words? Had he emphasised any particular word? Perhaps he liked _drinking_ , just not _alone_. Or perhaps he liked being _alone_ , but preferred companions when he drank. Or perhaps he was so desperate for companionship while drinking that he would accept even Sherlock’s company. If there was a secret joke hidden in that remark, Sherlock could not decipher it.

He smiled at James, hoping he didn't look awkward. In school, one of his classmates had joked that Sherlock had the smile of a serial killer. For a week everyone had ambushed him, grinning at him scarily, unnaturally. _Do I look like that?_ he had wondered. He practiced his smile in the mirror, but the label _sociopath_ had stuck. When he started working with Lestrade, he thought he'd finally left that particular stigma behind, but then Donovan had resurrected it. He'd even heard her warn Watson that he was a _freak_ , as likely to commit a murder as to solve one.

They walked a couple blocks to a pub that James said he favoured. The limp Sherlock had previously noticed was still there. _Favouring the right leg. wasn't doing that a week ago. Don’t ask. Stop deducing him. That’s not what people do on dates. Or do they? Is this a date?_ He hoped it was, feared it was, had no idea how to tell what it was.

James pulled open the pub door and the smell of fried food rushed into their faces. “Their fish and chips are to die for,” he told Sherlock. “Huge, so we can share an order if you like.”

They ordered the fish and chips, of course, and a couple of pints. While they waited for the food, James chatted easily and affably about anything, everything, as if it were his job to make people comfortable. He was very good at it. Sherlock supposed that being a doctor had something to do with it. Doctors diagnose discomfort, after all. They learn to spot symptoms and treat them. Spotting Sherlock’s nervousness ( _why do I have to be so obvious?_ ), he was no doubt treating him with kindness ( _that’s all it is)._ Or pity, perhaps.

He had felt attraction for people before. Well, for men. He was, after all, human— regardless of what Donovan might say. He had some experience with attraction. After the first few times, though, he’d learned to keep himself buttoned up, his face a shield against the hurt that always followed if he confessed his feelings.

It alarmed him that this man— this indescribably lovely man— might have somehow seen through his facade. Why else would James— obviously a straight man— ask a _freak_ out for a pint? Clearly, he was just being polite. He’d seen Sherlock standing there awkwardly, had divined his feelings, and was not put off, but felt sorry for him. James was one of those lucky people who are so at ease with themselves that they never wonder what to say next.

Guided by James, the conversation limped along. Sherlock considered what might happen next. While others might play every encounter by ear, he was socially tone-deaf. Though gifted at deducing people, he found it hard to predict these unstructured social situations. He had accepted this, reasoning that he had other talents. His goal tonight: be considered as a (potential) friend by James Watson, beautiful human being. But he did not know the first step to that might lead there. He hesitated. Like a domino, each action he might take could potentially create a cascade of consequences.

James was smiling. He had wanted someone to drink a pint, eat some fish and chips with him. He found Sherlock acceptable. To be accurate in his observations, however, Sherlock had to admit that James seemed to like everyone. Once the meal was over, Sherlock predicted they’d part ways. The most likely outcome was that James would add him to his collection of _friends,_ might say to other members of that collection, _we’re friends, Sherlock and I._ And Sherlock might have casually remarked (if he’d had any friends to make casual remarks to), _Oh, yes, James is a friend._ Not _my_ friend. Just _a_ friend.

The term _friend_ , containing as it did an infinite universe of expectations and variations, was so imprecise as to be meaningless. The next time they saw one another— it might be a few days or weeks, depending on what help Lestrade required— the next time would be the same as all the other times… gentle chit-chat, professional conversation. Maybe he would admire Sherlock ( _amazing, brilliant_ ), as he had when they worked their first case together. Maybe he would invite him out for a pint again— with others, of course. This time was surely a fluke. Today every other possible participant in a pub night had already departed, leaving just the two of them. Usually there would be more than one Yarder wanting a drink and a game of darts. If so, Sherlock could now be included, having proved to James that he could be a part of such a group without causing embarrassment to anyone. The others, however, would be surprised if he said yes, so he might have to say no— just to tamp down their curiosity. If they looked too closely at him, they might see through his facade— and they would know it, they would see his attraction to James— and then it would be all over—

“You okay?” James eyebrows were raised, his face still smiling, but questioning now. “Looked like you disappeared somewhere just now.”

“No. I mean yes, I’m fine.” He schooled his expression and glanced around the room. So many faces, most smiling… approximately sixty percent of the people in the room looked relaxed and happy. Another twenty percent, perhaps, simply looked tired, as if they’d been dragged along by well-meaning friends. Most of Sherlock’s pub experiences had been like that. The remaining twenty percent of patrons seemed to be on the prowl for a sexual partner. Sherlock did not like being part of a group of predators. He knew that James was dating a woman. He would not make an inappropriate move on him. Sherlock was not a predator.

“Earth to Sherlock.” James grinned. “Long week?”

“Seven days, as all weeks are,” he said, puzzled by the non sequitur.

James laughed. “They were wrong when they said you had no sense of humour.”

 _Ah, a joke_. He smiled, tried to think of something to say. Maybe it was time to change the subject. _What do people talk about at pubs? What do friends talk about?_

Football, perhaps. He wasn’t sure when the season began or ended. Perhaps it was perpetual. It certainly seemed like people were always ranting about the players, the games, the rankings, and other things that he didn’t care about. Sherlock didn’t waste space in his Mind Palace on sports. He did not understand people who were so fannish that they were willing to riot. As an exercise in statistical probability, it might be mildly interesting, but for most people, talking about sports was like debating religion— pointless. One cannot debate with individuals who do not care about statistics. For these reasons (obsession, statistics, dogmatism), football would not be a good topic of conversation, he decided. He would not fail to say the wrong thing.

The food arrived, interrupting his panicky listing of all the _not good_ topics of conversation. Even as an internal monologue it was boring. James began sprinkling malt vinegar on the fish. “Bring us another round,” he said to the waiter.

It occurred to Sherlock that it would be good to express interest in James. Just personal interest, definitely not sexual. It might endear him to James and make his thanks for the evening sound much more sincere. But asking personal questions always felt like prying to Sherlock. He had observed that most people enjoyed talking about themselves, however,— unlike Sherlock, who preferred to talk about chemistry, or ballistics, or post-mortem bruising, or—

“How's Lisa?” he asked, feeling proud that he’d remembered the name of James’s current girlfriend. He’d made a note of three women James had mentioned as _dates_ since arriving at Scotland Yard: Sarah, Jeanette, and—

“You mean Laura?”

“Laura, yes.” _I’m an idiot._

“We broke up.”

“Oh. Sorry.” This was a lie, but a socially acceptable one. Sherlock hadn’t liked Laura at all (insipid, smug, and _mean_ ; entirely unworthy of such a man), but James apparently had, and _sorry_ in this case meant that Sherlock regretted any pain she might have caused James, _not_ that he wished they’d stayed together. To think of James with such a woman made Sherlock feel almost ill. He was definitely _not_ sorry they had broken up.

James gave a short laugh. “No worries. I’m not sorry. I even let her give me the _it's not you, it's me_ speech. But it was definitely me. We both knew it.”

“I'm not familiar with that speech.”

“Pretty standard fare when breaking up. I know I can be a bit of a cad.”

“You’re not a cad,” said Sherlock. “Any woman who would find you so must be blind. I have never observed you being anything but a gentleman.”

“Most women can tolerate, even appreciate a cad,” James said. “Nevertheless, it’s my part, as a gentleman—” he giggled— “to accept blame for the breakup. When a woman says, _it’s not you,_ she means quite the opposite. This is what’s so fascinating about women. They often say quite the opposite of what they mean. How about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not my area.”

“Boyfriend, then?”

“No.” He smiled. “I like to say I'm married to my work, but the truth is, I'm not very good at…. Erm…” He hunted for a word to fill in the blank. _Talking_ seemed appropriate at the moment.

“Relationships?”

“I was going to say _people_. I'm not _personable_.”

“I wouldn't say that. Lestrade likes you.”

“Lestrade tolerates me because my assistance is often useful. To say that he likes me would be an exaggeration. Most people don’t like me.” It wasn’t as if this was a big secret. Surely James had heard plenty of stories—

“I like you.”

James was giving him a slightly wicked smile that made Sherlock's knees weak. If he hadn't already been sitting down—

His phone was ringing. “Sorry, I have to take this.” He grimaced. “What? I told you… no, not interested… I don't care… no… no… goodbye, Mycroft.” He pocketed his phone. “Sorry about that,” he said.

James was still smiling. “Brother?”

“How'd you know?”

He chuckled. “Having one of my own, I recognise the tone. Nobody but a brother could provoke that much exasperation.”

“You're right,” he said, returning the smile.“He's seven years older and thinks that gives him the right to tell me what to do.”

He nodded. “Older brothers are by definition annoying.”

“You speak as one who knows from experience.”

“Yes, But in my case, he’s only seven minutes older. Those few minutes make him think he's the big brother. As I see it, we were conceived at the same moment, so we’re equals, with the right to annoy one another equally.”

“You're a twin.” Sherlock mentally kicked himself. _Obviously_. “That's why you laughed when I said, _it's never twins_.”

“Sometimes, it _is_ twins.” James chuckled. “People are fascinated when they learn I have an identical twin. They always ask silly questions. _If I punch you, will he feel it? Can you read each other's minds? Which one of you is the smart one?_ ”

“People are idiots for the most part,” Sherlock said. He wanted to return to _I like you_ , but wasn't sure how to steer the conversation back in that direction. Returning to James’s breakup with Lisa/Laura would not be good. He understood that much about relationships, that talking about an ex was not a good opener to expressing interest.

 _I like you._ He couldn't have meant anything by it. He dated women, not men. He wasn’t gay.

James broke the lengthening silence. “So, what do you for fun, Sherlock? I mean, when you're not humbling the Met with your deductive powers?”

Sherlock tried to think of what he did that didn't sound boring. Anything that was not boring was fun, he supposed. “I've been doing some experiments with mould that are quite fascinating.”

James laughed out loud, a glorious sound. “An interest like that must give you some great pickup lines. _Wanna come up to my flat? I've got some interesting mould specimens_.”

“I can show you, if you’d like—”

James giggled. “Sherlock, you don't have to promise me _mould_ to get me to go home with you. Do you understand?”

 _Idiot_. Of course. Mould did not interest normal people. 

“I’m… sorry, I didn't mean…”

“Sherlock.” James lay his hand on Sherlock's and levelled his cobalt eyes at him. His voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “I'm flirting with you.”

“You're… erm…”

“I'm bisexual. And interested. If you are.” He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist.“Are you?” He smiled. “Your pulse tells this doctor that you are.”


	2. More Than I Ever Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Reader,  
> Please HEED THE TAGS!  
> This will be angsty!  
> No canonical characters will die, and I promise you that Holmes will soon have his Watson. An angsty journey to get them there, but it will happen.  
> With apologies,  
> The Author
> 
> Please see the end notes if you'd like to know the inspiration for this story.

Sherlock’s flat was only blocks away, allowing them to walk, enjoying the cool spring evening. They didn’t say much. James hummed a bit, a song that Sherlock didn’t recognise. He himself never hummed, in spite of having perfect pitch and superior auditory recall. There were many definitive dichotomies between people, he had observed— larks versus night owls; those who made lists versus those who bought whatever looked good, people with green thumbs versus people who could kill plants by looking at them. A significant one in his mind was whether a person hummed to themselves or not. It bespoke confidence, he thought, and an unconcern for who might be listening. One did not hum for other people. It was for oneself. Extraverts hummed and danced and didn’t care what anyone thought. Introverts kept themselves buttoned down.

Once he’d turned his key in the door and let James inside, he waited to see what his reaction would be. When he’d left hours earlier, Sherlock hadn’t thought he’d be bringing anyone home to his mess. Though he knew where everything was and could lay his hands on any individual item within seconds, he was aware of how it all looked— the stacks of notes, the experiments-in-progress, the music stand, the violin, the piles of books. Mrs Hudson often complained _how can I clean when every square inch is covered with clutter?_

He had already pegged James as a neat person with orderly habits. He might be horrified, or he might be amused. What he didn’t expect was admiration.

As he looked around the room, walking between the stacks and piles, his smile broadened. “It’s like you,” he finally said. “Full of everything.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “You know what they say about an empty desk.”

“Empty desk, empty mind,” James replied. “You have a desk under here somewhere?”

“In the corner. See the stuffed owl? Under him.”

“Ah, yes.” He turned to Sherlock, his eyebrows raised. “I hope there are no owls in your bed.”

“And if there are?”

James walked towards him, hands in his pockets. “I’ll shag you against the wall, if I have to.” His hands came out of his pockets and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock. One hand went up behind Sherlock’s neck, bending him down for a kiss.

Sherlock went still, feeling the lips that pressed against his, feeling the warmth uncoiling in his belly as James’s tongue parted his lips and began to explore his mouth. When James pulled away, he gasped.

“Too much?” whispered James. “Too soon?”

He shook his head. “No. More.”

James took his face in his hands and studied him. “I don’t want to push you. If you want me to stop at any point, say so.”

“I’m no virgin, James.”

He grinned and leaned in for more. “All right, then.”

Sherlock put a hand on his chest. “Bedroom,” he whispered. “Then you may resume pushing.”

They made their way down the short hall to the bedroom, wobbling like a couple of drunks. Once the door was closed, James shoved him against the door, holding his hands, and pushed his whole body against him. He could feel James’s erection; his own member was becoming harder by the second. Kissing James’s neck, he worked his way down to the clavicle, and sucked gently, giving a little tongue.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” breathed James, running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “Your mouth, god, the things that genius tongue of yours might do…”

Their shirts came off. Sherlock cast an eye towards the bed, checking to make sure there actually were no owls there, or anything else that might be distracting. It was clear.

James was grabbing his trousers, unzipping him and running his hands down over his bottom. “Christ,” he moaned. “You know how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on this amazing arse?”

Sherlock returned the favour, de-trousering James as quickly as his shaking hands would allow. And then James was pulling him onto the bed, and they were scrambling with the blankets, trying to get themselves under cover, and all the while kissing and giggling, sucking and licking and pulling at pants and vests and grappling for bare skin.

At last they were naked, side by side, breathing hard and hands wandering over each other’s bodies.

“Will you… let me…?” James asked. He sounded tentative, as if he might offend. His hands were hovering over Sherlock’s waist, his fingers inching lower, touching the coarse, dark hair.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “I want you.”

James inched his way down Sherlock’s body, reaching for spots he might have missed, fondling nipples, stroking belly and thighs. At last Sherlock felt the clever hand stroking his over-eager cock, which was already leaking profusely. Then James’s mouth was on him, taking him in a bit, then pulling slowly off, little by little taking more of him, his hand around Sherlock’s balls, gently massaging.

“Oh…” This was so different from the other times. Those had been business transactions, mostly, and even the times that weren’t felt impersonal. Lust-fueled, but loveless. But here was James, adoring his body, worshipping every inch of him. Words left him, thought ceased. His balls began drawing up.

Before he could ask James to hold back, he was coming. He felt James swallow and gently tongue his softening prick.

Then he was sliding up beside him, smiling and kissing him with a mouth that smelled like Sherlock. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

Sherlock reached for James’s arse with one hand, his prick with the other. “Let me.”

“I want to be inside you. Will you let me?” James whispered.

Lube was in his bedside drawer— long unused, but still viable. He prepared himself as James watched. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he whispered. “I’m not going to last. Let me.” He inserted a finger, then two, feeling for the prostate, spreading his fingers to relax the tight sphincter.

Sherlock felt his cock twitch, even though he’d come just minutes earlier. “Now, James. Please,” he pleaded.

James carefully entered him, checking as he went deeper, making sure that he was all right. _No one ever did that before_ , thought Sherlock. _No one cared if I was all right._

The second time he came, James was right with him, balls deep, shuddering and calling out his name.

For a few minutes, they simply lay like that, breathing hard. Sherlock felt James’s cock slip out of him and turned them both to face one another. James pulled his condom off and carried it to the loo. Sherlock heard a flush.

“Brilliant,” said James when he slipped back into bed. With a damp flannel, he cleaned Sherlock off as well as he could. Raising his head, he looked at Sherlock. “You all right? You’re very quiet.”

“I’m fine. Better than fine,” he said. “Just a bit… overwhelmed. Giddy.”

“Me, too.” James smiled. “You make me giddy. I feel like running through the streets naked, screaming your name.”

Sherlock laughed. “You’d be arrested. But you’re always welcome to scream here.” He leaned in and captured James’s lips again. “You’re always welcome in my bed.”

“Good,” said James. “I might just stay here. You’ll have trouble evicting me now.”

“You could move in,” Sherlock said. Instantly he regretted it. For some weeks, he had been thinking that a flatmate might make sense to help with the rent. But maybe cohabiting with someone you had just started shagging wasn’t a good idea. “Sorry. You’ve got a lease, and we’ve just started this… this…”

“No apology necessary. My lease is up in a few months, and I’ve actually been looking, but everything nice is expensive.” He smiled ruefully. “Let’s give it a bit of time. I’ve got John to think about first. When he gets home, I’ll be taking him in. If he decides he’d rather live alone, I’ll have to see that he’s settled before I consider a flatmate. It’d be brilliant waking up to you every morning, but I don’t want to ruin us before we’re properly sorted.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock said. “When your brother comes home, you’ll see to him. This flat could accommodate three, you know. There’s a room upstairs that could be made over into a bedroom. We’ll see where we stand when your lease expires.”

James laughed. “Look at us, discussing leases in bed.”

“Naked,” added Sherlock.

“Shall we discuss investment strategies next?”

“I’d better consult my broker before this goes any further,” Sherlock said.

They both dissolved into giggles.

When they’d settled down, James asked, “Tell me about you, Sherlock.”

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Bollocks. You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met. I just find myself thinking, _how can this fascinating person be interested in me?_ Tell me how you became a consulting detective. I’ve asked Lestrade, but he just says, _now, that’s a story_.”

Sherlock hesitated. Talking about his drug addiction, the days he spent homeless, the months he spent in rehab, was unpleasant, to say the least. James was a doctor, and might be disgusted at his behaviour. “It’s not easy for me to talk about,” he said finally.

“Sherlock, I’m not judging you. However you became the person you are now is fine. We’ve all done things we’d rather not talk about. If you don’t want to tell me, it’s fine. If you do, also fine. I won’t judge you. God knows, I have not lived a pure life.”

And so he began, telling him how he started taking drugs at uni, when he was under stress and had a roommate who could acquire things; how it got out of control to the point where Mycroft intervened, sending him to rehab; how he rebelled, refusing help, becoming homeless, seeking drugs…

“Wow,” said James. “That must have been really hard for you. I can’t dismiss what you’ve been through, but you’re clean now, and that’s what matters. That’s an accomplishment.”

“I am clean,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you to think I’m just a junkie in temporary hiatus. I really worked hard to get here, and I don’t intend to lose it.”

James stroked his abs, kissed his navel. “You’re amazing.”

“After I got clean, Lestrade started inviting me to crime scenes. He said it was just to keep me occupied so I wouldn’t relapse, but he benefited as well, so, as they say, all’s well that ends well.”

“Indeed,” said James. “And now, to show faith in you, I’ll confess my sins.” He smiled. “Potential flatmates ought to know the worst about one another, don’t you think?”

“True,” said Sherlock. “Show your skeletons, Watson. You cannot shock me.”

James told him about their alcoholic father, a musician who sometimes beat his children and eventually went to jail after a botched robbery. He told him about how he and John started drinking at uni, how they had dangerous sex and picked pockets for liquor money. “We were wild,” he said, shaking his head. “John finally woke up one day and said, _we have to stop this or we’ll end up like Da._ I’d been feeling the same thing. That was the moment we started thinking about med school. John said that if I stopped, he would. I agreed. We went through it together, came out at the other end, sober.”

“You still drink,” Sherlock pointed out.

James nodded. “We stopped the bingeing. You have no idea how much liquor we used to put away on a weekend. And we stopped the petty crime. Thank God, we were never caught, no police record haunting us. We’re not angels, not now, not ever, but we keep each other straight. When he gets home, I’m going to have my hands full taking care of him. He’s depressed because of his injuries, and I know how that will go. He’ll start refusing rehab and therapy, want to stay in his room all the time. That’s why I have to keep myself available for him.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have _you_ ,” James replied. “And I’m not sharing with him.” He grinned wickedly. “Not this time.”

“You’re saying…” Sherlock’s brain stuttered. “You and he… with…”

“Not angels, remember?”

As he began to process this, he became aware that James was looking at him, his eyebrows raised. “Sherlock?”

“I think I’d like to meet John,” he said.

 

He woke up early, before dawn, unused to having another body wrapped around his. James was breathing softly in his ear. Carefully, he turned and looked at the man. What he saw made him smile. Hair tousled, eyes closed, features relaxed. Already hard, he wriggled back into James, hoping for a morning quickie.

“Mm.” James reached down, taking hold of his cock without a word.

After a few minutes of sleepy groping, things became more serious. This time Sherlock gave attention to James, using his tongue skilfully.

“Wait,” James said, turning Sherlock onto his back and climbing on top. “Need lube.” Lube and another condom were produced from the pocket of the jacket James had left on the floor. He grinned at Sherlock. “Yeah, I figured we’d end up here.”

“A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” Sherlock said.

James unrolled the condom over Sherlock’s cock and began to slick him. “If I were presumptuous, I would have pushed you into an alley and shagged you the day we met.”

He remembered. Lestrade had convinced him the case was a six, maybe a seven. A suicide in an abandoned building. Woman in her thirties, multiple affairs. Husband challenging her for custody of the daughter. Sad, sordid, boring.

The only thing about that night that was _not_ boring was James Watson. Lestrade had introduced them. Sherlock was smitten.

“Hey, come back,” James was saying. He was kneeling over Sherlock, preparing to lower himself onto his cock. “Where do you go when you do that?”

“Mind Palace,” he said. _God, James was beautiful._ His face flushed with arousal, his compact body…

“You’ll have to take me there some day.” James closed his eyes and sank onto his cock. “You’re going to have to dedicate a new wing to me when I’m done with you.”

Sherlock grabbed his thighs, let go immediately as James hissed in pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, opening his eyes. _Idiot. The limp._

James smiled. “No worries. I bashed my leg a few days ago. In a hurry to get across to the coffee shop, I slipped between two parked cars. Unfortunately, the driver of one was in a hurry, too, and didn’t notice me when he backed.”

“You’re all right?”

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

“Let me see,” Sherlock said, switching on the light.

“It’s really not that serious,” James said. “Come on, love.”

The bruise was impressive, dark purple, just beginning to turn green around the edges. “Did you have this looked at?”

“I’m a doctor, remember?” James giggled. He reached over and turned the light off. “Let the doctor take care of you, love,” he whispered.

 

When he woke again, it was light. They lay tangled and sticky in the sheets. After the last time, they hadn’t even bothered cleaning up.

“What time is it?” James mumbled.

“Nearly seven.”

James groaned. “Gotta go to work.”

“Let me make you some breakfast,” Sherlock said. “Go ahead and take a shower.”

“Join me?”

“There’s not enough time to do all the things I’d like to do to you,” Sherlock informed him. “Nor enough hot water. And I don’t want to make you late for work. You’ll have to wait until tonight.”

“You’re cruel,” James said, pretending to sulk.

Sherlock kissed him. “Well, you can punish me later.”

“That sounds promising,” James said, heading to the shower.

 

He made the tea and scrambled the eggs while he heard the shower running, pouring them into the pan and pushing down the toaster when he heard the bathroom door open.

In five minutes, James was dressed, his wet hair several shades darker than when dry. He was humming, relaxed.

His mobile buzzed. He looked at it, grinning. “It’s my brother,” he told Sherlock. “Asks me what I’m doing. Ha! Says he could tell I was having sex.” Still chuckling, he typed.

“How can he know that?” Sherlock had heard of a sort of telepathy between twins, but thought it very unscientific. More likely, they just knew one another better than any other human beings.

James shrugged. “He’s just jealous. Laid up in hospital currently.”

“What happened to him?’

“Shot. Went clean through his left shoulder. I saw him just a month ago. Looked bad, but should be better now. Sounds better.” He was reading off his phone. “Says he’ll be home in a couple weeks.”

“His name is John, you said?”

James nodded. “Our parents had one name picked out, thinking there’d be just one of us: Ian Hamish. When I came out on my brother’s heels, they couldn’t agree on a second name, so they gave us the same name. He’s John Hamish, and I’m Ian James. _Hamish_ being the Gaelic variant of _James_ , and _Ian_ the same as _John_ — well, you get it. I don’t know why parents do things like that with babies’ names. Feeling their cleverness for having produced a small human replica, I suppose. In our case, two. Our Da preferred calling us Hamish and Ian, but by the time we were in school, it was John and James.” He smiled at Sherlock. “Your parents endowed you with quite a singular moniker.”

“You’ve only heard the half of it. William Sherlock Scott Holmes is my full name.”

“Why’d you go with Sherlock?”

“There were too many Wills and Billys already when I started school. I didn’t see myself as a Scott. So I chose Sherlock.”

“A unique name that suits you, I think.”

He wanted to ask more about his twin brother, but sensed that it was a well-worn topic with acquaintances. Thinking about two of them, James and his identical brother, made his heart pound a bit. Just a bit. _Two of them_.

“You’re close to your brother,” he said.

James gave him a rueful smile. “Of course. But we’re similarly competitive. Same friends, same sports, same interests. Occasionally fight over girls— and boys. The two of us went through college and medical school together, parted only when John decided to go into the army. I tried to talk him into police work, but…” He shrugged.

“He’s bisexual, then, as well?”

James nodded. “Never had to worry; always accepted each other. I suppose it made it easier coming out to our parents, the two of us united and twice as stubborn as them. Never tried to show up Harry, but we always did. Can’t blame her for hating us.”

“Harry?”

“Harriet. Our older sister. Poor thing— saddled with two over-achieving little brothers and their demented sense of humour.”

“I wish my brother had _any_ sense of humour, demented or otherwise.”

“Seven years, eh? That’s bound to make the prick domineering.”

“You must have been upset when you heard John had been wounded.”

James nodded. “It was a relief to hear he’ll be all right. Might not be a surgeon any more, but he’ll be able to practice medicine. Thinking of him… gone, though.” His face clouded. “We fight all the time, but still, when I first heard, that was all I could think about. I didn’t know how I’d cope. Being alone, I mean.”

“Most of us are alone,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah.” James ducked his head. “It’s hard for me to imagine not having Johnny. Either of us would rather die than admit it, but we’re truly two bodies with one soul. He always knows what I’m thinking— even three thousand miles away. I knew the moment he was hurt.” He blinked tears away. “Felt it, in my chest. Turned out to be the shoulder, but all the same…”

“Interesting,” said Sherlock. Realising that this was not a good reply, he added, “I’d like to see you together.”

James grinned. “He’d fancy you as well. Which is why I’m not sharing. Let him find his own gorgeous consulting detective.” He leaned over the table and kissed Sherlock. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

After James left for work, Sherlock looked at his mould experiment. Somehow, it did not seem as interesting as it had yesterday. He smiled. _I’m the lucky one._

 

At noon, his mobile pinged.

— _hey loveJW_

Though he preferred to text, Sherlock could never figure out how to respond to texts like this. He started typing, backspaced. After his third attempt to hit the right tone, another text popped up.

_— dinner tonight? JW_

_— yes, I plan on eating. SH_

_— lol of course you do, you git. JW_

_— I get off at six. Think about where you'd like to eat. JW_

_— Angelos? SH_

_— sounds good. Meet you there? Six-thirty? JW_

_— I’ll be waiting for you. SH_

_— love ya [kissing icon] JW_

He debated about an appropriate response. Was this an admission of love? Was it a cheeky way of saying _can’t wait to shag you again_? Or was it a casual way of signing off—

_—Sherlock? JW_

_— I love you too. SH_

He smiled to himself. Ten minutes later, he sent another text.

_— [kissing icon] SH_

A reply came a few seconds later.

— _Oh God you’re perfect. [heart eyes icon] JW_

He hunted through the icons, trying to find an appropriate reply. Selecting icons was even worse than figuring out what words to use. Ten more minutes went by. No more replies from James, but he felt as if he had to address his last text. He thought, _I’m far from perfect_. _You’re more than I ever thought I’d have. You’re handsome, clever, intelligent, patient… you’re perfect._ But he couldn’t say all of that in a text. It didn’t feel like the right medium. Texts were for short messages. And sweet messages, it seemed.

He sent a cute grinning devil icon.

James replied at once: — _Lol you devil I hope that’s a promise JW_

 _Ah, sexual innuendo_ , he thought. He hadn’t intended anything other than to suggest he was not perfect. He always got innuendo wrong.

_— you are my [angel icon] SH_

— _[heart icon] see you tonight. Gotta get back to work. JW_

 

At 6:25 he sat at his table at Angelo’s, waiting. He knew the owner well, having rescued him from a murder charge. They chatted for a few minutes.

“Candle?” Angelo said, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

He blushed. The restaurant was not brightly lit, so perhaps no one noticed. “Yes,” he said. “A candle would be appropriate.”

Angelo grinned. “Everything will be perfect for you and your date. I will personally make sure.”

At 6:43 he began to worry a bit. He always tried to arrive at appointments early, just to settle in and prepare himself mentally. There was no question that the evening would be pleasant. There might be awkward moments, but now that he knew James felt as he did, they could laugh about it, get to know one another better.

At 6:51 he worried. Perhaps someone had given James something to do just as he was getting ready to leave, and he hadn’t had a chance to text. Or maybe he was stuck in traffic. Traffic in London could be awful.

At 6:55 Angelo stopped by, a question on his face. Sherlock stammered something about traffic.

“No worries,” Angelo said.

At 6:57 he texted James.

_— Are you all right? SH_

There was no reply. _Stuck in traffic? No, he would text if that were the case. In an accident?_

He spent the next five minutes imagining James injured. He couldn’t think of anything to text, though that would be the logical thing to do.

_— 6:30, we said. Are you stuck somewhere? SH_

At 7:10 it was clear that he was not coming, not replying. _I’m a bit of a cad,_ James had said. Maybe that was a warning. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he’d found someone else to spend his evening with. Maybe he hadn’t meant any of it.

_— I’m leaving. SH_

 

On the way home he checked his phone repeatedly, finally decided it was time to ring James. It went straight to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message, cursing himself for a fool. _It's not you, it's me_. James had no interest in a relationship with him. James was handsome and smart and funny. Why would he want to be with someone who found mould exciting?

 

It was late afternoon the following day when Lestrade stopped by.“I could use your help, Sherlock,” he said, subdued. “This is a rough one.”

Glad for the distraction, he pulled his coat off the hook and started slipping his arms into the sleeves. “The victim?”

Lestrade shook his head. He looked shell-shocked. His eyes, when they met Sherlock's, were red and watery. “It's James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the inspiration for this story from Mad_Lori's Performance in a Leading Role. If you have not read this story, you should. You must. It was the first Johnlock fanfic I read, and I've re-read it several times since that first encounter. An all-time great.  
> In that story (no spoilers), Sherlock and John are actors in a movie where John plays twins, Mark and James. In the screenplay, James commits suicide and Mark begins an affair with Benjamin (played by Sherlock), James's doctor. Sherlock and John fall in love during the weeks of filming this movie. That's all I'll say about it. Read the story!  
> But I always thought that someone should adapt this idea. What if Sherlock fell in love with John's twin James, lost him, and then met John? How would he feel about the twin? How would John feel about him?  
> That is where I began.  
> Again, sorry for the angst.  
> Hoping you are blizzard-free, or else happily snowed in this weekend!


	3. The Eyes of His Lover

He had examined hundreds of crime scenes, seen hundreds of dead bodies. The exact numbers were somewhere in his Mind Palace, but he could not bear to go there, into that wing where a new room would soon appear. _Ian James Watson. Murdered at age thirty-four._

It was the first crime scene where he’d actually known the victim.

“He left work at around five,” Lestrade told him. “Came home, appears to have been getting ready to go out. He’d mentioned to Anderson that he had a date.”

“Didn’t say who she was,” Anderson added. He was examining the body. Sherlock could not look at that body. _James…_ “He’s been dead for hours. I’d estimate the time of death at six yesterday evening.”

“The gun,” said Lestrade, pointing to where it rested in the right hand.

“Clumsy attempt to make it appear to be a suicide,” said Anderson. He sounded proud of himself, looked at Sherlock as if he expected an argument.

“He’s left handed,” said Sherlock. _The gun. The hand. James’s hand._

Anderson nodded. “As I said. Not suicide.”

Lestrade sighed. “Where’s his mobile? Maybe that holds a few clues.” He looked at Sherlock, frowning. “You want to take a look at the body?

“It had to be someone he knew,” Anderson said. “Shot at close range with his own gun, no defensive wounds. Through the forehead, like an execution.”

Cold sweat trickled down Sherlock’s sides. He felt his head losing blood, saw his field of vision going grey.

Lestrade clapped a hand on his shoulder and guided him out of the bedroom, sat him in a chair in the small living room. Leaning forward, Sherlock put his face in his hands.

The DI crouched down beside him. “I know this is hard, Sherlock. He was our friend. That’s why we’ve got to do our best for him. Try and pull yourself together.”

“Anderson seems to have everything in hand,” he whispered.

Lestrade gave a short huff. “Anderson is not you. You always see things he misses. I need your eyes on this case.” He stood, resting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder again. “Take a few minutes to pull yourself together.”

At least ten minutes went by. He sat, thinking about who was lying in the bedroom, sprawled across the bed where he’d fallen. He thought of how he’d had his arms around that body not twenty-four hours before it happened, how they’d made love in his bed…

He heard Sally speak. “What’s with the freak? I thought all corpses were the same to him.”

“Be kind,” Lestrade replied.

“Has anyone called the family?” she asked.

“No parents,” said Lestrade. “I called his sister. She said she’d contact their brother.”

_His twin. Two bodies, one soul. Now just one body._

Unsteadily, he rose to his feet, dread weighting him down. It was time to see the body, get that part over, so he could focus on examining the room for clues.

When he appeared at the door to the bedroom, they all turned and looked at him.

Lestrade stepped towards him and took his arm. “Thank you,” was all he said.

Not trusting himself to speak, he looked at the bed. Anderson and Donovan stepped back, letting him pass. He closed his eyes briefly, then steeled himself.

The body had already been photographed. Someone, probably Anderson, had pulled him into a more natural position. The blue eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling now, the face wearing an expression of shock. It still amazed him how much blood the brain contained. The mattress had soaked up most of it, but there was a pool of coagulated blood on the floor as well.

_The_ blood. _The_ skull. _The_ face. _The_ body. Not _his_ body. Not James. This wasn’t James any longer.

He drew a breath. “Anderson’s observations are accurate.” He held the cold hands, turned them over. _The hands that pushed him into the wall, that unbuttoned his shirt…_ _Deep breath…_ No skin under the nails. No struggle. It was quick, sudden. _At least he didn’t suffer,_ he thought.

He stood and looked around the room. The window hadn’t been opened in a long time, judging by the dust patterns. No signs of a scuffle, no upended furniture or dropped phone.

He’d been getting dressed. Light blue shirt, button down. Khaki trousers, no belt, buttoned, zipper open. Brown socks. The belt hung from a knob on the chest of drawers. A pair of loafers was neatly waiting by the door, ready to be slipped on. A dark blue jumper lay on a chair. _Matches his eyes…_

In the bath, a towel lay on the toilet seat, a comb on the sink. Blond hair in the comb. He could see a circular smear where he’d wiped the mirror in order to see himself. He’d stood here, wiped the mirror, and combed his hair. Probably humming to himself, smiling. He applied antiperspirant. A bottle of cologne sat on the counter. _Kenzo_. Bergamot. Vetiver.

It was a tidy flat, he noted. In the closet hung trousers, shirts, and jackets. No piles of clothing, no overflowing hamper. The drawers were filled with socks, neatly rolled, pants and vests, folded in piles. Another drawer held jumpers, arranged by colour. The surfaces were not cluttered. A wooden box held cufflinks and tie tacks. A framed photo of James and his twin.

Sherlock picked up the photo, studying the two men. Both of them were smiling. One (he could not tell which) had his arm around his twin’s shoulder, while the other had a hand around his brother’s waist. A comfortable intimacy. Rivals in all things. He stared into those identical eyes, trying to see James, distinguish him from John. Too close to tell.

He wondered, distantly, why a twin might need a picture of his identical brother, when he could just look in the mirror. What did they think if an old candid photo turned up— could they tell which of them it was? When they looked at one another, was it like looking in the mirror?

“He let the person in,” he said quietly.

Lestrade nodded. “No sign of forced entry.”

“The murderer knew where he kept his gun.”

He couldn’t think. He spoke in a monotone. “You all worked with him. Who would want to kill him?”

“Nobody,” Sally said with conviction. “Everyone liked him. Only a psycho would kill a man like James Watson.”

He closed his eyes. He couldn’t think.

“Someone he knew,” he muttered. “He wasn’t surprised to see him. He let him in. They talked in the bedroom because he was getting dressed. A person he would allow into the bedroom. He didn’t see it coming.”

“How do you know he didn’t see it coming?” Lestrade said. “I know there’s no sign of a fight, but they might have argued.”

“He was tucking in his shirt when the bullet hit him.”

“Or maybe they weren’t arguing,” said Donovan. “His zipper was undone, which suggests—”

“That he was tucking in his shirt,” Sherlock cut her off. “Most men get out of the shower, put on pants, apply deodorant, put on vest, tuck it into pants, pull up trousers, buttoning but not zipping the flies, then dress shirt, then unbutton to tuck in the dress shirt. That his hands were occupied with this suggests that he was not ill at ease. He did not feel threatened. Thus, no argument.”

“It was a hit,” Lestrade said. “There was no bargaining. Did anyone hear anything?”

Constable Brown had entered during the discussion and now spoke. “Next door weren’t home. Across the hall heard voices, no shouting. A man’s voice, baritone probably. Said she opened her door, saw him let in a tall man with dark hair.”

“Why’d she open the door?” asked Sherlock.

“She was curious.” Brown shrugged. “She’d said hello a few times before. I think she fancied him, just wanted to see who was visiting.”

“They took his mobile,” Sally said. “There must have been something there.”

_His mobile…_

Forensics had arrived and were bagging the body, preparing to put in in the ambulance. Sherlock looked at his face one more time before they covered him.

_I will find whoever killed you. And I will kill him myself._

 

He spent the next day sitting at home, not eating or drinking or smoking. He felt bereft, unmoored, unable to think of anything but those empty eyes.

What they ultimately would have become to one another, he didn’t know. He’d been hopeful. The fragility of that hope was revealed when he jumped to the conclusion that James had stood him up. He’d been quick to assume that he’d been rejected, not worried enough about James’s safety— though it wasn’t as if he could have saved him, he reminded himself. By the time Sherlock arrived at the restaurant, James was already dead. They’d probably each been in their respective showers at the same time, then drying off with a towel, picking out what they would wear. While Sherlock was putting on his aubergine dress shirt and his black bespoke suit, James was also getting dressed. While Sherlock was tying his shoes, perhaps, or putting product in his curls, James was talking to his murderer. It wasn’t logical to think that he should have known something was wrong, but it felt especially cruel that he’d headed out without a single premonition. He’d blithely checked in with Angelo, sat at the table sipping water and thinking about having sex with James. And James was lying in a pool of blood by then.

Lestrade said he’d contacted family. Had his twin sensed anything, he wondered. John, his brother, who’d been wounded and was recuperating in a hospital, ready to be shipped home, not knowing he’d never see his twin again. He remembered James’s words. _I don’t know how I’d cope with being alone._ Had he felt alone, even before he heard?

He hadn’t a single picture of James. Maybe they would have taken a selfie at Angelo’s, sent it to John. _Get your own gorgeous consulting detective._ He felt jealous of John, who had memories and photographs, and knew his brother inside out. He wished he’d had a chance to really know James, to learn how he took his tea, what his favourite song was, what made him laugh. That chance was over before it even began.

 

Mycroft was in the flat. He didn’t remember letting him in, which was disturbing.

“Mind Palace?” his brother asked.

No point in denying it. He nodded.

“Mr Lestrade called. He said he’s been trying to reach you.”

He stared at the expensive shoes. “Is there a question?”

“One of your colleagues from the Yard was murdered, Lestrade said. This seems to have affected you deeply. What happened, Sherlock?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock sat up. “It was difficult… to see him… that way.”

Mycroft lowered himself into the chair. “You cared for him.”

He scowled. “Is this the part where you chide me for caring, where you remind me that _sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side?_ ”

“No, little brother,” he replied with surprising gentleness. “This is the part where I ask how I can help.”

The tears that he’d kept at bay so long finally let loose. Mycroft quietly moved to the couch, sat next to him, holding him as he sobbed. “It’s all right, brother mine.”

“No, it’s not!” he cried. “He’s dead. I loved him and now he’s dead. It’s not all right.”

“It is what it is,” Mycroft replied. “You cannot change what happened, but you owe it to him to find his murderer. This is something you can do.”

He shuddered through one last sob, then took the proffered handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “I know you’re right. But I can’t think. My mind keeps blanking.”

“Grief tends towards lethargy. Vengeance, however, is a great stimulant. Allow yourself to be angry on his behalf, Sherlock. He did not deserve such an end. Seek the solution for him.”

Wiping his eyes one final time, he pulled out his mobile and rang Lestrade.

 

The meeting had already begun when he arrived. Lestrade nodded for him to take a seat.

As he sat, he looked at the sandy-haired man sitting across from him and startled. He was looking into the eyes of his lover.

He had seen the bullet hole, the blood, the blank eyes. He’d watched them lift the body into the ambulance and drive away.

Now, he’d seen a ghost.

“John Watson, Sherlock Holmes,” said Lestrade. “Sherlock is a private detective who consults with us on difficult cases.”

John Watson was the very image of his twin— same build, colouring, and face. His hair was shorter and lighter, his skin tanner, and Sherlock remembered that he had been in Afghanistan. His left arm was in a sling, and a cane leaned against the desk next to him. In spite of his injuries, he rose and held out his right hand to Sherlock. “Thank you,” he said in James’s voice.

Sherlock rose and took the hand. A shiver ran through him as he touched the man. “I will find your brother’s murderer,” he said hoarsely, willing his eyes to stay dry.

Watson gave his hand a small squeeze and let go. “I hope you will.”

Lestrade began. “Ordinarily we do not share details of an investigation with family members. However, your commanding officer has asked us to let you in on what we’ve uncovered so far. He felt that your knowledge of your brother, as well as your own observational abilities, could be of assistance to us.”

_Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought. _He’s arranged this_.

“I appreciate it,” John said.

“Your aptitude scores were high,” Sherlock interjected. “You could have been MI6, but you chose to serve as a doctor.”

Watson frowned. “How would you know that?”

Donovan laughed. “He’s just showing off.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. He flushed, fearing he’d offended the man. “I knew your brother, a bit. The military always tests officers for aptitude. I deduced your high scores based on your twin’s talent for investigation.”

“Sherlock is very good at what he does,” Lestrade said.

John finally nodded, seemingly placated. “I just want to get on with this,” he said.

Lestrade filled him in on what the initial investigation showed. Autopsy results were not yet available. “Though we don’t expect he was drugged. Nothing like that. He was getting ready for a date when it happened.”

John nodded. “He mentioned that he’d met someone. He wouldn’t tell me a name, though. Do you have any idea who it was?”

Lestrade shook his head. “He told Anderson he was going out, but wouldn’t give a name. He was dating a woman named Laura, but they’d recently broken up.”

“That was nothing serious.” John smiled. “Whoever he’d met, it was more than casual.”

“How do you know?” Donovan asked.

“I asked, and he refused to say. If it had been just a date, he would have told me. But he didn’t want me in his business. _Hands off,_ he said. _Get your own.”_

“He was texting her at work,” Anderson said. “I heard him giggling.”

John smiled. “Yeah, he was smitten. Have you checked his mobile?”

A warning began to go off in Sherlock’s brain.

“It was missing,” Lestrade said. “We’ve asked the phone company for records of any calls or texts he sent that day.”

“Could this person have met him at his flat?” asked Donovan. “Perhaps they argued.”

Anderson spoke. “No signs of a struggle. If it was a lover’s spat—”

“Maybe it was an ex-lover,” suggested Donovan. “Confronting him about his new girlfriend.” She looked at Watson.

John shrugged. “James was a bit of a rogue.” He smiled. “But I don’t think he would cheat on a lover. He liked things to end clean. He was glad, he said, to be done with Laura.”

“Maybe she was angry that he broke up with her,” Donovan suggested. “A woman scorned—”

“She broke it off,” Watson replied. “Did it by text, he told me. He laughed about it.”

Lestrade nodded. “Well, when we hear from the phone company, we can verify that.”

The warning in Sherlock’s brain grew louder. When a secretary entered with an envelope, he started to panic.

He rose to his feet. “Erm, I should probably—”

“Ah, here it is,” said Lestrade. He frowned at Sherlock. “Sit down. You need to hear this.”

Watching Lestrade slide the letter knife and slit the top flap seemed to take hours in Sherlock’s mind. As the DI pulled out several pages and began to read, he tried to stifle his panic. In a few seconds, everyone would know what he knew, what he’d not admitted when he should have spoken. _Idiot._ It wasn’t as if he had deliberately concealed it. It had simply eluded him at the crime scene, when all he could see was James’s open, staring eyes, his startled expression.

Lestrade was reading now, his expression puzzled, then shocked, and finally angry. “Sherlock…”

_The humiliation_. Lestrade read the texts aloud, every one of them, including the icons. Mouths hung open. Watson was silent, staring at the floor.

“Did you not think this was relevant?” Lestrade asked him. “Christ, Sherlock. We were talking about it, and you didn’t say a word. What were you thinking?”

“I couldn’t think,” he said. “I was… I was upset.”

“You took the mobile,” Donovan said suddenly.

“No, I—” He saw disbelief in their faces. “I didn’t.”

She went on, her voice rising as she spoke. “You went to the restaurant afterwards and sat there texting, pretending you’d been stood up, knowing—”

“No!” he shouted. “I didn’t know! I just thought… I thought he’d changed his mind.”

Anderson was gaping. “You? What the hell!”

Donovan shook her head. “God, I _knew_ this would happen some day—”

“Everyone be quiet!” Lestrade was standing, shouting. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Sherlock. _You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence_.”

“You’re reading me my rights,” Sherlock said. His head began to spin. “You think I did it.”

“You’re a suspect, mate,” the DI replied. “I think you need a lawyer.”


	4. Who I Am Without You

John Watson knew his twin as well as he knew himself. One look at Sherlock Holmes, and he’d known.

When the texts were read, the calls listed, his suspicion was confirmed.

When the others stopped gaping and made their outraged accusations, he’d been startled.

 _Dear God_ , he thought. _This man did not kill my brother_.

When Sherlock was led out of the room to await his lawyer, John turned to the DI. “Mr Lestrade,” he began. “This is a mistake.”

“Look,” said Lestrade. “I don’t think he did it, but it looks awful bad that he didn’t speak up. In any case, I can’t use him in the investigation.”

John had limped off to the bedsit where he was staying, wondering about the man his brother had loved.

Harry was nowhere to be found. She’d called the base in Germany, spoke to someone at the hospital where he was being kept, but hadn’t actually talked to him. That was Harry— avoid responsibility at any cost. A stranger had delivered the news to him.

He didn’t know if his sister was sober or drinking again, whether she was with a partner or on her own. James hadn’t communicated much with her either, not after her last bender and the blow up that followed.

He dialled her number, left a message when she didn’t answer. “Harry, I’m back. Call me.” She didn’t.

On the plane flying home, he’d tried to come to terms with what had happened, but it was impossible. James had always been with him. Leaving for Afghanistan was their first lengthy separation, and it had been rougher than he’d anticipated. He thought of him a thousand times a day, had internal dialogues with him, texted him as often as he had a signal. James worried about his safety; it was ironic that John, in a war zone, had come out alive, while his twin, in London, had senselessly lost his life.

The Met would give it their best, he knew. James was, after all, one of theirs. He didn’t know much about Sherlock Holmes or why Lestrade trusted him so much, but if James had found him remarkable, he was sure that he was.

 

He stayed in his bedsit, making the arrangements. He knew he should make arrangements for physio, and probably talk to the therapist that his doctors had recommended, but he couldn’t deal with everything at once. The funeral had to happen soon; he didn’t want things to drag on like this. He needed to get through it without thinking too much.

During his recovery, he’d imagined returning to London. James had asked him to move in with him, promised to take time off work to get him settled. They’d always played the role of sorter for one another. When one had a problem, an illness or an injury, the other sorted things out. It was what they did. He’d often reminded James not to go off half-cocked, or despair, or lapse into lethargy. James had done the same for him. He’d been kicked off the rugby team once, in secondary; James quit as well. James got in a fight, John was at his side, throwing punches. He’d broken up with girlfriends for James, playing the arsehole so James wouldn’t have to; James had taken tests for him when he was hungover. And vice versa. Once they’d both fallen for the same girl, and had taken turns going on dates. The girl never knew until they decided to break up with her.

It was easier with men. Men generally fell in love with bodies, not people.

Now he needed James to get him through this, but he couldn’t even imagine what James would say to him. Half of his soul had been ripped away, leaving a gaping wound. He felt only half-alive.

 

Harry finally called. Though she was his sister, though they’d grown up in the same house with the same terrible father, he’d never felt like he really understood Harry. It might have been rough growing up with younger twin brothers— always covering for one another, making sure she got blamed as often as possible. She treated them like a single entity: the Twin Unit, she called them. On the phone, she could not tell their voices apart, and had taken to referring to whichever she was addressing simply as _bro._ How would James’s death affect her? Would she even miss him as long as she had John to call _bro_?

“How are you?” she asked. “How’s the shoulder?”

Well, at least she remembered he’d been wounded. She’d even joked with him on the phone the last time they talked, saying that his limp would make it a lot easier to tell them apart.

“The funeral,” he said. “Are you coming?”

There was a fairly long silence. “Do you think I would miss my own brother’s funeral?”

“Just checking. It’s Saturday. I figured there wouldn’t be any relatives besides you and me,” he said. It felt strange to say _me._ There was no more _us._ “Some people from the Met will come, but it’ll be small.”

“I’m bringing someone,” she said.

“You’re bringing a _date_ to Jamie’s funeral?”

“She’s my girlfriend. I need her there for moral support.”

“Fine. Make your own arrangements. My place is too small for three.” _And I’m not putting up with your wack girlfriend,_ he added mentally.

He met with a woman from the funeral home, who tactfully led him through all the choices. Burial or cremation? What kind of casket? What hymns would they sing? Who would give the homily? Who would read the obituary?

Though the funeral home had people who wrote obituaries for grieving relatives, he had decided to do it himself. James would have done it for him. Whatever he said, it wouldn’t be for the people who took the time to see his brother off, it would be for James only.

The day of the funeral dawned cold and wet, but the rain cleared up by noon. The casket would have to be closed, he decided. It didn’t matter much; he’d sat by his brother’s body, held his hand, and tried to say goodbye. He thought about how James had cried when he saw John lying in hospital, his shoulder wrapped in gauze. He and James were never religious, but both of them had believed in the soul. Now, he wondered. James was empty, his soul fled somewhere John couldn’t follow. _One soul_ , James had said, _two bodies_. The body was here—the hand cold, the face composed, but not as in sleep. _Where is James?_  

Lestrade arrived, and Donovan and Anderson. A few others from the Met came as well. Harry arrived ten minutes into the service, accompanied by Clara, her girlfriend. Her eyes were red; she smelled like alcohol.

When he came up to the podium to give the eulogy, he was surprised to see so many. At least fifty, he estimated. Harry was weeping softly into Clara’s shoulder. Lestrade looked stunned. He’d probably lost men before. Donovan was crying. Anderson bowed his head, stared at his lap.

In the back row, several rows behind everyone else, sat Sherlock Holmes. He looked wrecked, John thought. _Understandable_. He’d seen his lover murdered, then been accused of his murder. Though he’d most likely be cleared, he was off the case. He might be the only person in the room who could begin to understand what John felt. But Sherlock Holmes would forget; he would move on.

John stood in the silence, waited to begin his goodbye.

“Hey, Jamie,” he said. “It’s me, Johnny. I’ve got a few words to say to you. Yeah, you’d throw a strop too, if I went off and left you.” He grinned tearfully. “I know. Not your fault. The thing is, there’s a lot I wished I’d said. These are things I think you know, but it’s worth saying out loud, here, with all your friends to hear. We’ve been through a lot, the two of us, always together, even when we were in different countries. We’ve counted on one another, kept one another right, fought for each other, lied for each other, argued with each other, laughed and cried together. Do you remember when we… well, of course you do. There’s nothing I remember that you don’t. We don’t even have to say it. All you have to do is look at me and say _jelly,_ or _coat rack—_ and we’re laughing about the same story.” The congregation chuckled. He wiped his eyes and went on. “You’re my best friend, Jamie. I don’t think I ever understood until now, though, what it meant to have you, and I certainly never considered what it would mean if…” He paused, overcome. “If I didn’t have you. You were my better half. I don’t know who I am without you. When they told me… you were gone… my first thought was you standing next to me, your arms around me, saying _we’ll get through this together._ ” A long pause, during which he wished he’d let someone else speak instead. “I miss you. I love you. And I know that if there’s a world after this one, you’ll be waiting for me at the door.”

There was more he’d planned to say, but it was enough. He took his seat. The rest of the service passed in a haze. And then he had to stand up again and let people shake his hand, telling him how much James had meant to them, how sorry they were that he’d lost his brother, and if there was anything they could do…

There was nothing.

When everyone had left, Clara took Harry home. John spoke to the funeral director for a few minutes. When he’d left for Afghanistan, he’d talked to James, told him if he died, he wanted to be cremated. James had agreed, said he felt the same. There was no family plot, no cemetery where their generations of Watsons had laid their loved ones to rest, no monuments to Watsons of yore. Da had died in prison and Mum had him cremated. He didn’t know what she’d done with the ashes. There was no service. When she followed him a few years later, they did the same for her, scattering her ashes in the Sea of the Hebrides.

It would be a week before the ashes could be collected, the director told him. They would call. And there was nothing more to be said or done. He took his cane and limped out to call a cab.

Waiting outside was Sherlock Holmes. He hadn’t seen him go through the line and had wondered if he’d ducked out at the end of the service. Apparently he had, but he’d waited.

He looked very nervous, John thought. He remembered his brother’s last text to him: _Not sharing this one. I’m in love._

He could see the attraction because he felt it himself. The man was gorgeous, he thought, the dark curls, the pale eyes, the long limbs, the nervous energy…

But it was futile. This man would see John as a replacement for whatever he’d loved about James. He would expect him to _be_ James. He could not have a relationship— any relationship— with his brother’s lover. Let Sherlock forget, find someone else to love. Let them live separate lives. Maybe they could have... but it was better not to go down that road.

“Mr Holmes,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

Holmes shifted nervously from foot to foot. He wore black suit with a white shirt, had tugged his tie a bit loose— obviously put on for the occasion, not a habit.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes. “I’m so very sorry.”

He nodded. “Thank you.” He imagined their first meeting, had James not died. Jamie introducing him to Sherlock, acting a bit possessive, and John flirting ridiculously just to make his brother jealous. He imagined how happy he must have been.

“Lestrade took me off the case,” Sherlock said, finally meeting John’s gaze. His eyes were grey, changing colour in the sunlight like an opal.

“He told me. I wish… I hope they can solve it without your assistance.”

Holmes nodded. “They will.” He held out his hand. “I miss him.”

John felt the tears start in his eyes again as he took Sherlock’s hand. “So do I.”

“Well,” said Sherlock. He let go of John’s hand and walked away.


	5. The Perfect Vision of HIndsight

Sherlock Holmes had met many pairs of twins, some in school, and a couple in his own family. He had always learned to tell them apart, even the monozygotic ones. Normally, by the time identicals were out of early childhood, they had acquired at least a few subtle differences. One might wear his hair slightly longer, or have better teeth, or might dress a bit better. A few were mirror-images of one another, identifiable from the hair whorls or the eyebrows or the side of the mouth that crooked up a bit more when they smiled.

John Watson was a doppelgänger for his twin. The man’s arm was in a sling, and he carried a cane, but other than that, he was identical. Even his gestures were James's— the hand rubbing the back of his neck, making the short blond hair stand on end. The little nose twitch that made him look like he was about to sneeze. The licking of his lips before speaking. The way he cocked his head, the serious look, the sudden smile.

He stared, trying not to see James in his twin, but it was impossible. Tears filled his eyes, remembering the last time they'd seen one another. The last time they’d made love.

The dark blue eyes held him. “Mr Holmes,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

He had to look away. It was like seeing a ghost. “I’m sorry. So very sorry.”

 

His counsel had advised him to keep his distance from anyone associated with James Watson or the investigation. He’d gone to the funeral thinking he could just slip out before it was over, but he felt compelled to say something to John Watson. _I’m sorry_ was what people said at funerals, but it occurred to him after he said it that it might make him look guilty, too. He didn’t care. And he was sorry, properly sorry for John, who’d clearly had a close bond with his twin. He recognised the grief he saw in the man’s eyes; he grieved, too.

Mycroft came up to the flat, shook the rain off his umbrella and sat in the chair opposite. “Not wise, brother.”

“I thought avoiding the funeral might make me look guiltier.”

He frowned. “You of all people should be aware of the popular perception that murderers enjoy seeing their victims buried.”

“I am not a murderer,” he said. He felt tears pricking his eyes again.

“You don’t ever go to funerals, Sherlock. This is widely known in your circle of… acquaintances.”

“Do you think I feel no grief, or that I would let my fear of these charges keep me away? I loved him— I’m not ashamed to—” He drew his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs.

“Not ashamed to go to prison? Because that is one possible outcome of this mess,” said Mycroft. “Listen to your counsel.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock replied. “No motive— why would I kill a man to whom I’d just confessed my love?”

“Text messages and emojis are not confessions.”

“I was at home when it happened, getting ready for our date.”

“With no witnesses.”

“No gunpowder residue, either. Even if I’d worn gloves, it would show up on my jacket. Lestrade had them take samples.”

“That was days afterwards. They will say that you got rid of the clothing.”

“Angelo remembers that I came into the restaurant at 6:25 pm. He saw me sitting there, noticed that I was upset as it got closer to 7:00 pm.”

“The time of murder was determined to be around 6:00 pm. You have no witness for that time period.”

“What about your constant surveillance of my activity? Surely your nosiness can, for once, work to my benefit.”

“Cameras were removed from the flat at your request. And I have not attempted to get footage from merchants— again, at your specific request. If you are amenable, I will see that the footage is requested and used in your defence. It may not be usable, however. My cameras are of much higher resolution than those used by most merchants.”

“Of course I'm amenable— I have nothing to hide. How can people be so stupid? I'd never been in his flat before. I would not have known where he kept his gun.”

“You knew he had one.”

“He worked for the police! Of course he had one.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Don’t delude yourself. And you’d better listen to your counsel from now on.”

“Mycroft,” he said, gritting his teeth. “If I’d wanted to murder someone, I would know how _not_ to get caught. With my experience, would I have done it in a such as way as to have no alibi?”

“That may be your best argument. But evidence counts for a lot in such cases. And your secrecy about the relationship, your continued silence even after the investigation of his flat, looks suspicious. In the eyes of a jury, _suspicious_ means _guilty_.”

Sherlock glowered at him. “Do _you_ think I did it?”

“Of course not.”

“Funny, it sounds as if you’re building a good case for the prosecutor.”

“We will look at CCTV from neighbouring buildings, as I said, and hope to catch you on camera. The problem is that there are no cameras from James’s block, and the time of murder is not exactly pinpointed. Unless we find footage of you on the other side of town, it will be hard to prove that you couldn’t have done it. Juries listen to this kind of reasoning.”

“They have to be convinced, though,” Sherlock protested. “They can’t convict based on a suspicion. Burden of proof. Reasonable doubt.”

“It won’t matter,” Mycroft said. “If they let you off because they can’t prove you did it, you will still be condemned in public opinion. Your career will be over.”

“Sod my career,” he said. “James is dead. Send me to jail, or set me free— nothing will change that. I need to solve this, find out who did it.”

“You can’t. I know I encouraged you to do this, Sherlock, but I did not expect you to become a suspect. I’ve spoken with Mr Lestrade and he agrees that you need to step away. If you involve yourself in this at all, any solution you discover will be tainted. Stay out of it. We don’t have to uncover the real murderer. All that is required is to prove that you did not do it.”

“I told John I would solve it. Lestrade invited him to the briefing— why is he allowed to be involved?”

“Out of respect for his position, he was informed of what the investigation has turned up, which is little. He will not be involved in the actual investigation. Nor will you.”

After Mycroft left, he sat, motionless, eyes closed, recalling every detail of that night. He could not let it go; that would be letting John down. There had to be a clue. There was always a clue.

 

He desperately wanted to talk to Lestrade, to find out where the investigation was going. Though he was not confined to his flat, his barrister had made it very clear that any visits to New Scotland Yard would be interpreted as interference with the investigation. Even Molly Hooper was off limits, he was told, because she’d worked with James. He could not talk to anyone who’d been his friend. And he’d been surprised to realise that the only people whom he might have considered friends were also friends with James Watson.

No friends. And, apparently, plenty of enemies.

The newspapers played it as expected: _Consulting Detective Suspect in Murder of Met Officer_ was the most objective. _Gay Consultant Seduces, Murders NSY Lover_ was more typical of what one could read off the newsstand or on the internet. James would have hated it.

With the perfect vision of hindsight, Sherlock realised that he should have admitted the date with James as soon as it was brought up. He wasn’t a prude, didn’t care if anyone knew his orientation. His hesitation was the result of insecurity, not prudery. Whatever might have been between them had been cut short, and now he would never know what could have been. He might have misread James’s interest. James might have been infatuated, or perhaps fickle, going from partner to partner. He’d admitted his bad-boy past, and it was entirely possible that his interest in Sherlock was just a fleeting infatuation. People might find it surprising that Sherlock Holmes couldn’t deduce a lover’s intentions, but it would not be unusual. In matters of the heart, his miscalculations were frequent.

 

“Someone to see you, Sherlock,” said Mrs Hudson. She looked uncertain.

He shrugged “A client?” He’d already passed garden-variety boredom and was heading into desperation. If he’d had a gun, he might have shot up the wall (again), but guns were the last thing he needed to be associated with. Someone might call the police, and he might get to talk with Lestrade as a result, but he could imagine the rage of both his barrister and Mycroft. That would not be pleasant. He’d been contenting himself with reading.

Currently he was perusing all the scientific studies of twins, especially those claiming twin telepathy. What he found was either entirely anecdotal (no more than coincidence creating a false impression), or it was negative (no evidence of twins being able to read one another’s minds). As a scientist, he felt compelled to recognise the lack of positive evidence. John’s text to James asking if he’d had sex was explainable without resorting to telepathy. It was simply two people who knew each other well enough to predict each other’s behaviour. It would be more compelling if it had been a Friday night, but it was a Thursday. People could have sex on any night they pleased, but if one were going to predict sex between two people, it would make more sense to note that weekends were more likely to yield sexual encounters—

“Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson still looked confused.

“Is it a client?” he repeated.

“He says he is, but I’m not sure.” She pressed her lips together. “He’s wearing a false beard and has a hoodie pulled over his head.”

“You’ve deduced that he has some hidden motive for coming here?”

“No, I recognise him. He’s been here before,” she said. “I believe he’s from Scotland Yard.” She made a noise of disgust. “Silly disguise. As if he could fool me.”

“Not Mr Lestrade?”

She shook her head and looked a bit embarrassed. “I remember he was here for… one of the drug investigations.”

Sherlock sat up and put his laptop aside. “Well, let’s have a look at him. Send him up.”

She hesitated at the door. “You’re not using again, are you?”

“No worries, Mrs Hudson. I have not relapsed. I am on my best behaviour.” _For James._

He heard her descend, talk to the visitor, telling him to go on up.

“Anderson,” he said when the man stood in the doorway.

He gave a curt nod and pulled back his hood. “Holmes.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“Oh.” He was certain that Anderson would not drop by to check on his wellbeing, and he was equally sure that Lestrade had no idea his forensics tech was here. “Does Donovan send her greetings as well?”

Anderson reached behind and closed the door. “May I sit?”

Sherlock gestured at the chair, intrigued now.

“I need your help,” Anderson said. His expression was that of a man who has just bitten into a lemon. “This has be remain between us. Nobody knows I’m here.”

“I’m not supposed to talk to Scotland Yard,” he said. “If this is about the investigation, I’ve been severely warned not to interfere.”

“Do you want this to be solved?” Anderson asked. “Or do you want it buried?”

“The murder of a police officer is a serious thing,” he responded. “Why would it be _buried_ , as you put it?”

“Because it may involve internal… wrongdoing.”

“Wrongdoing… by Watson?”

“No, James was as straight as they come.” At Sherlock’s frown, he rolled his eyes. “Morally, I mean, not sexually. He was a good, honest cop. No, I think the wrongdoer is someone else in the division. I think James uncovered something.”

“Go on,” Sherlock said, more relieved than he wanted to let on. He still remembered the horrified looks when his affair with Watson was uncovered. At least no one would have trouble believing that it was genuinely an affair. _Gay Detective Seduces Straight Cop._ No, if even Anderson could see that James wasn’t straight, it was obvious. “What do you think he found?”

“Not exactly sure,” Anderson said. “I suspect— no actual evidence, so don’t curse me for an idiot— I suspect that it may involve records that were altered. James had an MD, so he might catch little things that were off,things that didn’t make sense. He was quite meticulous with his own reports.”

“You suspect that someone is changing medical or forensic reports in order to shield— whom?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t know why. But I think someone may have killed James to silence him.”

“So. You don’t think that I killed him.”

Anderson huffed impatiently. “You were a sodding mess at the crime scene. And your face, when Lestrade read the texts— If you’d killed him, you’d have acted the part of a sociopath, not a grief-stricken lover. You would have smiled that psycho grin and pretended it meant nothing to you. You would have said he seduced you or something, that it was a one-night stand. But you didn’t. You looked stunned at first. Then you looked like you’d just lost the love of your life. Go ahead and call me an idiot. Nothing I’m saying can be proved. Sally would swear that everything you do shows you’re a sociopath. She just wants that to be true because she hates you. I say you’re an arse and an emotionally stunted prat, but nowhere near cunning enough to fake grief.”

“Thank you, I think.” He studied Anderson. He’d always considered the man a botch, a bumbler, a tech who’d acquired that title without an ounce of innate talent, a man who couldn’t deduce his way out of a paper sack. If he accepted what the man was now telling him, he would have to admit that he, Sherlock Holmes, was a bit wrong about Philip Anderson. It was beyond credible that the man could be correct about this, unless Sherlock conceded that he had more than an ounce of intelligence. On the theory that even a broken clock registers the correct time twice a day, he proceeded. “What help are you asking me for? And why are you risking censure by coming here?”

“You’re an arse, but you don’t deserve to go to prison for something you couldn’t have done. I’m not vindictive, Sherlock. Even if you go on to ridicule me for the next twenty years, I can’t drop this. If something is going on, it needs to be uncovered. And I’m… I’m not sure I can do it myself.”

“Very well. What can I do?”

“I’ll look where you tell me to look, report back to you. Stipulation: you have to give me credit for everything discovered.”

“Of course. If I’m seen to be interfering—”

Anderson nodded. “Yes. You can’t be involved. Just so you know, I’m not doing this to promote my own career. I’m doing it because James was my friend.”

Sherlock remembered how James had treated his team members, how he’d never tolerated insults or slurs— against anyone. “I will help you,” he said. “I want to see the real killer exposed. If it’s someone at the Met, all the better. Police should, above all else, be honest. And I can’t see James being involved in anything dishonest.”

Anderson smiled. “No. He wouldn’t. And it’s ridiculous to think that he was randomly killed in a break-in. This was a hit.”

Sherlock smiled back. “I agree.”

“First steps?”

“Don’t make yourself a target,” Sherlock said. “If you’re going to look at records you suspect have been altered, don’t be obvious.”

“I know that much,” Anderson said. “I’m not a complete imbecile.”

“That remains to be proven. If you can get a look at his computer, see what he was looking at before this happened, that might help.”

“They’ve taken his laptop.”

“Really? Interesting. Someone above him must be responsible. This is not mere misconduct; this is quite serious. I suggest that you play the fool, as you normally do, ask your idiotic questions, look at records when you can, and report back to me before you do anything.”

Anderson gave him a slightly disgruntled look. Or maybe it was confusion. The man did not have a great range of emotion. “Why you?” he asked. “Yeah, I know you’re a posh git. You always get looks, both women and men. But what did he see in you?”

Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”


	6. I Keep Saying We

John sat on the bed, staring at his gun in his hand.

He was thinking about the day when James told him he was going into forensics.

“You’re going to be a cop?” he'd asked, noting that for once his twin had surprised him. “We’ve just finished med school. I thought you were going to specialise.”

James shrugged. “Forensics is a medical specialisation. I’ll be a forensic pathologist.”

They’d discussed different specialties. John had thought about emergency medicine or surgery. James liked liked working in the lab, diagnostics and pathology. It made sense that he would somehow be involved in solving crimes. John just hadn’t imagined James as a cop.

It wasn’t really a fork in the road, each of them taking different ways. They would always be on parallel paths. He himself had several ideas about what he might do. Travel appealed to him; he could imagine himself working as a doctor in other countries, part of Doctors Without Borders or Medical Missions. He’d also thought about joining the army, but hadn’t yet allowed that idea evolve into a plan.

Just as they’d been rivals in all things, they competed at the firing range, vying to be the better shot. It made them both better, he thought, to have such a closely-matched competitor.

_What I am, I owe to you,_ he thought. _What will I be now?_

He would get a pension from the army. Not much, considering he’d served only three years, but enough to live on. Perhaps. Money would be short. He’d counted on sharing a flat with James, at least until he could figure things out.

He might eventually practice medicine again, but not surgery. His left hand trembled because of the nerve damage to his shoulder, not good for a surgeon who was primarily left-handed.

And there was the leg pain, the embarrassing limp. When it started, a few days after he arrived at Landstuhl, he’d texted James what the doctors had said: _idiopathic pain._

James had replied: _bruised my leg a few days ago. Not idiopathic. Telepathic._ _My shoulder still aches, ta for that you git._

The pain had an origin, and now it would never heal.

 

He organised his life around tasks: shopping, physiotherapy, and seeing the counsellor. Ella Thompson was her name, and she specialised in PTSD.

“So,” she said. She was holding a notebook, writing in it. “Tell me how you’re feeling, John.”

He didn’t know how he felt. The part of his brain devoted to verbalising his feelings was missing. No, it was dead. _Brain tissue does not regenerate_. He was a doctor, and knew how healing worked. A scab, then a scar, red, gradually turning silver. The red explosion on his shoulder where the bullet had torn through him. The pain in his leg that never went away. The part of his mind that another bullet had taken from him.

The howling emptiness that obliterated everything else.

“I don’t know.” It was an honest answer, he thought. “It’s hard to think about it.”

“How are you sleeping?”

Sleep was something he wanted desperately. Every night he curled up in his boring little bed, pulled up the cheap blankets, punched the rubbery pillow, and lay down, hoping to escape into a dreamless landscape where he might find his twin.

He would have shrugged, but his left shoulder hurt. He tried the right shoulder. A right shrug felt alien, like eating with the wrong hand, stepping off with the wrong foot, waking up in the wrong bed.

“I have nightmares.” Maybe if he tossed her this bit of information, he could go home with an assignment. _Write about it, John._

“Always the same?”

He nodded.

“Afghanistan?”

He shook his head.

“Can you tell me about it?”

Well, he’d never been a quitter. He could try. “My brother,” he said. “I dream of him being shot. I see his body, falling on the bed. The blood. I see the… the hole in his forehead.”

“You said it was a closed casket funeral,” she said quietly. “Did you see his body before they closed it?”

He nodded. “I saw him in the morgue. They cleaned him up. But I told them no makeup. I wanted to see.” _Like a dog_ , he thought. Animals can’t think of death abstractly. They have to smell the body, nudge it to see if it moves. “I thought it might help.” This wasn’t really true. He hadn’t thought it out ahead of time. He just needed to see his brother.

“Did it help?”

“I don’t know. He… he wasn’t there. It was just his body.”

“You were twins,” she said.

_Are twins. He’s still my twin. I’m here, standing in for both of us._

“Twins often have a very strong bond. It might be some time before you fully accept that he’s gone.”

_I dream he’s dying and I’m not there. I hear him cry out for me, and then silence. There was no time…_

“A bullet to the brain kills instantly,” he said. Then he realised he’d spoken aloud.

“Yes,” she said. Her eyes were soft and kind.

“There was no time. No time for anything.”

“You want to say something to him. Can you say it now?”

At the service, he’d said it, almost everything. There were things he couldn’t say that day, not in front of a group of people. But he would not say them now, either.

“No, I don’t think I can.”

She nodded. “Give it time, John.”

“There was no time,” he said.

 

At the store, he bought tea, milk, eggs, bread for toasting, butter, jam. There was a toaster in the flat’s small kitchen, and a kettle. Breakfast was an easy meal to manage. He could eat breakfast twice a day. He could eat breakfast when he got up, stare at the walls for an hour, take a shower, eat breakfast again. It was a plan.

The girl behind the checkout smiled at him. “We’ve got a special on the bread. Two for one.”

“No, thanks. We won’t eat it up before it goes stale.” _We. I keep saying we._

She glanced at his hand. “Your flatmate must love jam, anyway. You’ve got three kinds,” she said.

He looked down at his basket. Apricot, strawberry, and orange marmalade. “I eat a lot of jam,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. A woman was flirting with him and he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t care. “It keeps a long time in the fridge.”

She tallied up his groceries and he paid. The walk home wore him out. He would have a nap, watch the telly, and eat some breakfast.

 

Physio was painful. It was also lonely.

He could not remember when he figured out that other people don’t say _ouch_ when their sibling gets hurt. There had been another pair of twins in their class when they were starting school. The Windemere twins, Holly and Ivy. They didn’t seem like twins. They didn’t even look alike. And they fought constantly. He and James fought, too, but never drew blood. He remembered seeing Ivy, the little one, scratch her sister’s face, screaming _I hate you._

He and James had sometimes hated their sister, and they had eventually realised what a terrible person their father was and had agreed to hate him as well. But it was always the two of them, together against the world. He could never hate James.

Strengthening his shoulder was going to take a lot of time. He was expected to start with small weights, limited reps, and work his way up. Even his uninjured arm was weak, though. He hated the looks of pity he received walking into the Physio Centre.

He had been proud to be an army doctor. The possibility of being wounded was never far from his thoughts— after all, it was his job to patch people up in a war zone. He saw far too many life-altering injuries not to understand the odds. But there had been another cost he hadn’t reckoned.

If he hadn’t gone to Afghanistan, he might have been with James. They would have shared a flat, as they’d planned, and James would not have been killed. Or maybe he’d have taken the bullet instead of James.

But he’d been lying in hospital, perfectly useless, when they told him. Naturally, he’d already known. It was almost like a seizure. The nurse had come running in to check his vitals when one of his alarms sounded. He was nearly well enough to go home at that point, had just picked up his phone to text his brother, when it struck him. He dropped his phone, grabbed his head, and began to sob.

The nurse had tried to figure out what was happening, but he could not speak. A migraine, she suggested to the doctor. They made him move his arms and legs, made him look up, look down, smile, turn his head, raise his hands, wiggle his fingers and toes.

“I haven’t had a stroke,” he told them. “I need to call my brother.” He knew, even before he heard the phone ringing and ringing until it went to voice mail. He knew, even before a young officer came into the room the following afternoon, saluted him and expressed his regret at the news he was about to deliver.

 

He got on a bus, rode over to NSY, asked to see Lestrade.

“Any news?” he asked.

“Please, call me Greg. We’ve got a few leads,” he said. “This is a top priority for us.”

John nodded. _So, no progress._ “What’s happening with Holmes? Is he still a suspect?”

“We can’t eliminate him,” Lestrade said. He looked down at his hands, which were clasped before him. “Not yet.”

“Do you really think it’s possible that he’s involved?”

“Over the years, I’ve met a lot of murderers,” he said. “A murder like this, you look for something that fits. Your brother knew the person who killed him, which already limits the pool of potential suspects. I just didn’t know James well enough to be able to narrow it down. Hell, I didn’t even know he was gay. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw those texts between him and Sherlock. No idea.”

“But you trust Holmes.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Some of my people don’t like him, but I’ve known him for a long time. No solid evidence, though, which is why I can’t eliminate him as a suspect.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” John said.

“How so?”

“The real killer will relax his guard, maybe tip his hand, seeing that you’ve got a prime suspect.”

Lestrade rubbed his chin. “Maybe so.” He smiled. “How are you doing? I know you and James were close. You wounded, and then this. It’s a lot to process.”

He sighed. “You have no idea.”

“Did he ever mention— I’ve read his mobile record, saw calls between you. Did he ever mention any one… I mean, a conflict or disagreement. Maybe someone he didn’t like much. We all knew he was dating women— that was before Sherlock, I guess. Could someone have had a grudge against him? Anyone— someone he’d dated, a work colleague, an old school friend?”

“My brother was very easy-going, Mr Lestrade. When a relationship ended, it was always on good terms. He didn’t involve himself in office politics. Any rivalries he had were all friendly. He was competitive, but mostly with me. He wasn’t gunning for anyone and he didn’t envy anyone who was promoted. He was happy. I sensed that he was right where he wanted to be.”

“Why did he leave Edinburgh?”

“I think it was mostly for me,” John said, smiling. “He knew I’d be home soon. I’d talked about coming back to London to practice. He suggested that we could live together.”

“Just like that? You wanted to live here, so he got himself a new job and a place to live, anticipating that?”

“We didn’t discuss it,” John said. He blushed. “I know most people don’t dream of living with their siblings. I get that. My sister is the last person I’d want to share a flat with. But James and I had always lived together before I left, and there wasn’t any reason we wouldn’t continue sharing a flat. We got along well. He was… my best friend.”

“You didn’t fight? Ever?”

“We’d argue sometimes, but it was more like having an argument with myself. A way of figuring things out. Like when I joined up. We argued about that for months. But eventually we realised that it might not be a bad thing to go our own ways for a while.” He laughed. “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I cried a bit the first night after I left. I talked to him in the morning. He was crying, too. He said, _this was a mistake._ Then he said, _but we’ll get through it._ I always knew I could get through anything because I had him.” He looked up, embarrassed that he’d been talking, forgetting that someone was listening. “Just find the person who did this. Put him away.”

Lestrade stood. “I will, John.”

 

Ella sat, waiting for him to say something. He looked at the clock. _Thirty-eight minutes to go._ Thirty-eight minutes of painful conversation— or awkward silence.

“It might do you good to write, John,” she said. _Thirty-seven minutes_. “Have you ever kept a diary? Or a journal?”

“What for?” He hadn’t meant to sound rude, but he really didn’t understand people who kept diaries and journals.

“Putting your feelings on paper can help you process things.”

He said nothing.

“If you don’t like writing in a notebook, perhaps you could start a blog.”

“A blog?” All the awkwardness of writing about _feelings,_ combined with the malicious anonymity of the internet. “Who would read it?”

“You could set it to private if you don’t want strangers reading it.”

“Then what’s the point?” Back to _feelings on paper._ Perhaps he could start doing graffiti. Or putting notes in bottles. Or writing on restroom walls. Or just talking to himself as he walked down the street.

“You’re angry,” she said.

“No shit,” he replied. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t have to apologise for what you feel, John. You’ve lost someone you loved— your brother, your best friend. Not only do you need to process it, but you’ve also lost your support system, the one person you always turn to for help in processing things. Of course you’re angry.”

He tried to siphon the tears back into his ducts, but they were already running from his eyes.

She smiled encouragingly. “Listen, the internet is good for more than blogs. There’s a group— they have local chapters as well— but you can find out something about them online. Twinless Twins, it’s called. It’s a support group for twins who’ve lost their twin.”

“Okay,” he said. His voice sounded strangled. He took a deep breath, bit his lip to stop it from quivering. He imagined sad, newly-single twins, sitting on plastic chairs, passing around the tissues, none of them able to speak to a room of strangers after a lifetime of having a twin to talk to. He and James had even created their own language. _Cryptophasia_ , psychologists called it. _Jojam_ , they called it. A language with two speakers. Now just one.

She smiled. “I’ll see you next Wednesday. Is that day still good for you?”

He nodded. It wasn’t as if he had a full calendar of social events.

 

Back at his bedsit, he sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his gun. He thought about the hole in Jamie’s forehead, about the moment he stopped thinking, stopped being alive. Picking up the gun, he weighed it in his hands. _Life and death in one shot_. Experimentally, he placed it to his forehead, imagined a bullet tearing through his brain. Imagined his thoughts stopping. Imagined—

The knock on his door startled him. He shoved the gun into his desk drawer and went to open the door.

A boy no older than twelve stood there, a piece of paper in his hand. He held it out to John. “He said I should give this to you.”


	7. The Very Illogic of It

John entered the pub looking cautious and a bit confused.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said. He waved the slip of paper with the scrawled message. “Got your note. What’s up?”

He gestured for John to sit. The booth was in a back corner, poorly lit. That was fine. More important, there were no cameras in the neighbourhood.

He took a deep breath and began. “I know that I’m not the person you want to talk to right now, but maybe I can listen. Or just buy you a drink, if you prefer. We don’t have to talk at all, if you prefer.”

“But… you said you wanted to talk to me?”

“No. I mean yes, I do.” Sherlock rubbed his hands on his trousers, drying the sweat. “But maybe _you_ don’t. So I thought I should ask. It’s up to you.”

John was frowning. Perplexed look. Sherlock bit his lip. _Dear god, it’s James…_

“You’re not supposed to be talking to anyone, are you? The trial, I mean.”

“Correct,” Sherlock said. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”

“It doesn’t. You’re the one who should be worried, I think.” He gave Sherlock a thin smile.

“I’m not. Worried that is. I only want,” he said. John was looking at him, a little smile playing about his lips. It was James’s smile, his eyes wide and curious, the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“You only want…?” John repeated. The smile faded. “What’s this about?”

“Your brother. He felt things. Understood things. About you.”

John nodded. “And…?”

“I was wondering,” he continued. “I wonder whether you also felt these things.”

“Things?”

“Telepathy, perhaps. He said, when you were shot, that he _felt_ it. You told him that you knew he’d had sex. Was this usual?”

“Yes. Especially physically, like if we were hurt.”

“You have a limp. Why?”

John frowned. “What business of yours is it?” _Offended. Embarrassed. They told him it’s psychosomatic, but—_

“James hurt himself,” he said. “While you were in hospital, I think. He was sidling between the bumpers of two cars, not realising that one of the cars was in gear, ready to move. He bruised his right leg. I noticed him limping and asked him about it. Your impairment is on the same side. Your doctors can’t figure out why you have a limp because there’s no sign of injury.”

John scowled. “What do you know about me? Just because you knew my brother doesn’t mean you know me—”

“You’re seven minutes older, have always been protective of your twin. He’s more spontaneous, you’re more cautious. You have always competed with him, but secretly wanted him to win more often. You both went to med school, but with very different goals. He likes solving things, you want to save people. You joined the army because—”

“Shut up!” John abruptly stood, groping around for his cane.

“You didn’t bring your cane,” Sherlock said. “When you think about James, you don’t need it.”

“Shut up,” John said. “Stop doing that. Yeah, I know you can read people. Stop reading me. You don’t know me, and I have no idea why James liked you.”

Sherlock cringed. “I’m sorry. I always do this. People hate it. You’d think I would learn to keep my mouth shut, wouldn’t you? Look at me— I’m babbling! I don't know what to say because I don’t read emotions very well and I’ve offended you and I miss your brother, who sort of understood me. At least he tolerated me. I could talk to him. And now— If I could shut up, I would, but I seem unable to stop babbling—”

John sat down.

Sherlock decided that not talking might be his best option. For a bit. At least John wasn’t leaving. He fiddled with his coaster, took a sip of beer.

“I didn’t mean what I said just now.” John looked up, dark blue eyes focused on Sherlock’s face. “I do know why James liked you.”

“You do?” Sherlock watched his face, trying to decide whether John hated him or liked him. Maybe just tolerated him. That was good enough. He sighed. “I do not presume to understand everything about you, John Watson, but the fact that you were so close to him… endears you to me.” At the look on John’s face ( _annoyance? embarrassment? pain?),_ he back-pedaled. _Honesty, but gently_. “I know that feeling is illogical, but the very illogic of it makes it impossible to reason away. I didn’t intend to…I know that I’m a stranger to you, but… you’re all I have left of him. Not even a photo. Not a raft of memories. We were together for one night, and I loved… I hoped… but… I have nothing left.”

John didn’t answer the question that Sherlock was thinking: _why did James like me?_ But he didn’t leave. He licked his lips, squared his jaw. “I want you to find his killer. I know he trusted you, that he would want you to do this.”

“John.” Sherlock sat up straight, trying to look like a person who was not crazy. With James’s eyes staring at him, it was not easy. “What I want to know is this: did you sense that he was upset or worried about anything?”

John paused, his face thoughtful. “I think he may have been… anxious. I can’t give you words he said. We hadn’t talked about it. I just knew there was a conversation he wanted to have with me, but he wanted to have it face-to-face.”

“Do you have any idea what it that conversation might have been about?”

“Not you.” He smirked. “He’d been hinting about you for weeks, sort of teasing me. You didn’t worry him. He phoned me a couple days before you had your pub date, saying that he’d gathered his courage and was going to make his move. The morning after— well, you know what he texted me. It wasn’t you. Something else was troubling him.”

“So when he came to see you in Germany, he was fine?"

"Mostly. I didn't sense any unusual tension. He didn't seem to be hiding anything from me. I suppose-- I was wounded, on drugs, and often out of it. Maybe I missed it."

"When did you notice his preoccupation?”

“A week or so after he left.”

“You talked on the phone. How did he sound?”

“Relaxed, confident. But the other thing was there. Just a niggling worry.”

“So you have no idea what he was anxious about.”

“I made some assumptions, but I have nothing concrete, no clues for you to run after.”

John’s _assumptions_ would be better than anyone’s hard evidence at this point. “Did he keep a diary? A blog or anything?”

“No. Neither of us has ever done anything like that.”

Sherlock nodded. “You had one another. No need to write down your _feelings.”_

John smiled.

“Are you willing to speculate?” Sherlock asked. “It might help.”

John closed his eyes, thinking. “I assumed it was something at work. Not you. He adored working with you and the team, thought highly of Lestrade. I felt that he was waiting for something to happen, that he was not going to act until it did.”

Sherlock nodded. “I too sensed that something weighed on him, though he did not share any of this with me. Most likely because of the newness of our relationship. Not knowing him well, I did not like to ask. People do not appreciate my deductions.”

“Look, Sherlock,” John said. He seemed to have decided something. “I wish that I could help, but nobody is going to listen to the telepathic deductions of a grieving twin. They need something real, something concrete to go on. I wish you could help them figure this out. I’m not sure Lestrade and company can do it on their own, especially if it’s something internal.”

“Don’t despair, John.” He smiled. “One of your brother’s colleagues also has noticed something. Generally an idiot, he liked your brother well enough to have suspicions. He contacted me, asking for guidance. He will be in touch with me. If there is anything you wish to pass on, let me know. I am currently _persona non grata_ at NSY.”

“Thank God,” said John, sinking back in his seat. “I’m glad someone doesn’t think it was a random break-in.”

“His suspicions are much the same as yours, that something internal was going on. I am guessing that someone has altered paperwork, official records of investigations. For what purpose, I do not know.” He could think of at least six scenarios where someone might do that, but decided it was best not to go into all that. It would seem like showing off, and the last thing he wanted John to think was that he was some egotistical git who liked being in the spotlight. Or that he was using James’s death to forward his own career.

John sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“And I don’t understand enough about twin telepathy to know what to ask.”

John shook his head. “Most people don’t believe it’s real. Hell, I wouldn’t believe it either, but I’ve experienced it. I can’t explain it, but it’s real.”

“Vision,” Sherlock said. “Have you ever seen something remotely, through his eyes?”

“No. It doesn’t work that way. Pain, yes, and… other strong physical sensations.” He gave Sherlock a slightly wicked smile— _James’s smile_. “Sometimes I hear… I heard his voice. But anyone can conjure up a voice in memory, and knowing one another so well, it would be easy to imagine what he would say.”

“But you never thought it was imagination when you heard his voice.”

“No, I didn’t.” He sniffed, bit his lip, blinked several times.

Sherlock handed him a handkerchief. “It’s clean.”

John pressed it to his eyes. For a moment, he drew deep breaths. When he finally spoke, his voice shook. “I didn’t think it was imagination. If it were, I would still be able to hear him.”

“You’ve had no telepathic perceptions since—”

“No.” He wiped his eyes again. “Not since he died. Even before they told me, I’d stopped hearing him, feeling him there. I knew I was alone.”

Sherlock nodded. “I will do everything in my power to find out who did this, John. My hands are somewhat tied, but I owe it to James to do this. Just think about it, and if anything comes to mind— no matter how inconsequential or ridiculous it may seem— call me.” He scrawled his phone number on the note and handed it back to John. He nodded at the handkerchief. “Keep it. We shouldn’t leave here together, just in case someone is watching. You go first. I’ll wait.”

“Who would be watching?”

“If this is an internal matter at NSY, there may be a lot at stake. You need to take care.”

John stood, held out his hand. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

He took the hand, held it for a moment.

“Well,” John said. He stood and limped towards the door. 

After John left, he sat thinking. The conversation could have gone worse, he supposed. He was glad they’d talked, that he’d told him about Anderson’s suspicions. Perhaps John would think of something that could help. The conversation, however, was less important than John’s state of mind. If Sherlock had deduced correctly, there was a gun in that boring bedsit where he lived, and he had thought about using it.

 

Sherlock had felt alone all of his life. There was no other person who ever saw something friendly or familiar in him, no classmate who had a common interest, no child who ever said, “Do you want to play with me?” He learned to sit alone at lunch, walk alone, do his school work by himself. He did not take part in playground games or join any clubs or activities. Alone was what he had. Gradually, he began to feel that it protected him.

His brother Mycroft was possibly the only person in the world who could understand this. A solitary person himself, he did not try to explain it to Sherlock or guide him towards friendship. He simply observed, listened, and reflected back to Sherlock what he perceived. _You are not like other children, little brother_ , he once said. _And that is a good thing._

He might have agreed with Mycroft, but it perplexed him to see other children happy, playing together. He felt that he was missing something obvious. Wondering what it could be, he experimented. The few times he’d tried playing with another child, he’d been disappointed. Children were, for the most part, boring. He preferred talking to Mycroft, or to adults. Teachers were no good; they expected him to be like other children; they made notes on his behaviour.

He’d felt alone, but not lonely. Alone was comfortable. It meant no one was judging him. Being around other people meant putting up a front, pretending to be like them, pretending to understand their need to be with other people. _Goldfish,_ Mycroft called them. _Circling around their tiny bowl, thinking it’s the macrocosm._

Eventually, he’d tried having a friend. He was fifteen, at one of the posh schools his mother thought might be good for him, where he might make connections and find his _niche._ His parents seemed to have found their own _niches_ in the world, as Mycroft had. They were not lonely. They had friends and associates and didn’t find social gatherings painful. Sherlock would find his way as well.

His friend was named Victor, a sunny, popular boy whom everyone liked. Amidst the cruelty of adolescence, he rose above the meanness and called Sherlock _friend._ He even seemed to enjoy being with him. Victor liked playing sports, but with Sherlock he would mostly just sit and talk. He didn’t laugh at Sherlock’s ideas or pretend he didn’t know him when other boys came by. He frowned at their insults and told them to give over, stop taking the piss. He accepted Sherlock’s eccentricities, recognised his intelligence.

All the same, it was perplexing. Sherlock had assumed that having a friend meant that they would understand one another, that they would _feel_ together. He’d observed groups of boys who almost acted in unison, cheering the team, laughing and joking with one another, being excited or angry or happy all together. Like wolf cubs, running in a pack. He watched Victor with his other friends, and observed that he fit in, reflected their moods and emotions. If one of them was upset or sad, the others calmed him, bucked him up, made him laugh. If one was elated, that emotion was like a spark igniting them all. If an outsider threatened, they joined ranks, protecting one another. It was like playing a game, he supposed, one to which they all knew the rules— and he would always be the last chosen, the one who always ruined it because he didn’t know how to play.

Sherlock did not have a pack instinct.

He supposed he would never feel that closeness to another person. He was simply not made that way. Maybe he was defective, unable to find his place in a group, a normal response that was so instinctive that every other person seemed to do it without thought or hesitation. He could not learn the rules, nor play that game. _Stupid game._

Victor’s family moved back to Australia. They promised they’d write to one another, but when his first letter went unanswered, he realised that he’d misunderstood.

His years at uni were dark. He studied chemistry, learned what chemicals could do for his brain. The best thing to come out of them was Lestrade, who rescued him from an overdose. Though not exactly a friend, he had let Sherlock in on some of the secrets of the game.He did not mind explaining to Sherlock why it was bad to refer to the victim as a _corpse_ when talking to the grieving family, or reminding him to thank people for the information they provided. He told Donovan and Anderson to lay off when they said unkind things, always invited Sherlock to join them when everyone was going out for a drink. He didn’t go, but it was nice that one person, at least, thought him capable of playing the game.

James had not initially seemed special, but Sherlock could not stop noticing him. Though he was comfortably social, there was something solitary about him that Sherlock identified with. He was a paradox, a man whom everyone liked, who fit into any group, and yet carried an aura of apartness with him.

When James told him he was a twin, he wondered if this was where that aura came from. A twin could not be lonely, but he might never find true connection with another person. He had been in the womb with another, a creature identical to himself, had spent his infancy, childhood, adolescence with this other person. It might be perplexing to expect that closeness with others, and never find it. Twins did grow up and marry, he knew, but could they ever find a soulmate in an ordinary singleton who had never hugged another in the womb?

The more he thought about it, the more he thought that James could never have really loved him. They might have stayed together, but his twin was his soulmate.

The more he thought about it, the more he worried about John Watson.


	8. My Phantom Limb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to Us (Me).

John did not open the drawer. While he did not believe that the universe sent signs, the knock on his door that had brought a message from Sherlock Holmes had broken the train of thought that led him to consider the gun— now lying in the drawer, a bullet still in the chamber. He might open the drawer later, take the bullet out.

Holmes was interesting. The man was brilliant, socially awkward, and gorgeous. _I’m in love_ , James had said. _Not sharing._ He truly believed that Holmes had loved his brother; he could see it in his eyes when he looked at John, in the micro-expressions that flitted across the man’s face when they’d faced one another in the bar.

_He sees James. He sees his lover._

He still dreamed of his twin, but the James he dreamed of was cold. He stared wordlessly at John, the hole in his forehead revealing emptiness.

He got up from his bed, rubbed his leg. Maybe a hot shower would help.

 

Harry came down to see him on a Monday, leaving Clara at home in Edinburgh. She needed to do some shopping, she said.

She hadn’t said anything about their birthday, though it was just three days away. They’d be thirty-five. No, John would be thirty-five. James, forever thirty-four.

Harry was prattling on about something. Shoes, he thought. Sandals. She had a bag of shopping stowed under the table where they’d met for lunch. “Are you even listening?” she asked, frowning.

He gave her a tight smile, thought about just pretending, letting her go on about whatever she seemed to think was important. “No,” he said. “I wasn’t listening.”

“Rude,” she said. But she smiled.

“It’s our birthday soon,” he said.

“ _Your_ birthday,” she corrected. “I know when it is. I already got you a card.”

“Our birthday. We were both born on July 7.”

“You can’t go on like this,” she said. “I know it’s only been a month, but you’ve got to start moving on. You’ve got your physio and everything, getting back on your feet. Why are you limping, anyway? I thought it was just your shoulder.”

There were too many assumptions here to correct. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s all fine.”

She sighed and pressed her lips together, her eyes narrowing. “I lost a brother, too. I know we’ve never gotten along, and there’s no reason to think we’ll suddenly start ringing each other up on birthdays and spending holidays together, but you know that I care about you, James— John. If you need—”

“Don’t,” he said. He’d lived with it all his life, had grown used to her inability to tell them apart, but now there was no excuse. “It saves you a lot of confusion, having just one brother now. No more mixing us up, using the wrong name—”

“You don’t know,” she said, livid now. “The two of you—”

 _It was always about her,_ he thought.

He smirked, glad to have angered her. “Of course. Always a unit— to you, to Mum, to Da. You never bothered to know. Lucky for you, it can be simple now. You needn’t bother about me any longer.” He stood. His cane had fallen on the ground.

“Johnny.” She lay her hand on his. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave. Nobody can replace him, but don’t push me away.” There were tears in her eyes, he noted. _The drama queen, always crying on cue_. “We don’t really know one another. Can’t we at least try?”

He bent, painfully, to retrieve his cane. Just another reminder that James was gone. _He is my phantom limb, aching constantly._

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got physio this afternoon. Better be on my way.”

She smiled. “I’ll talk to you on your— on Thursday.”

 

On Wednesday he went to his talk therapist. Ella never seemed to mind his reticence, the long silences that stretched between her questions and his answers. He didn’t have any answers, not really. He just talked because that was what he was paying for. Not paying, really, not from his own pocket. Covered by the NHS, along with the physio.

“How did it go with your sister?” she asked.

He grimaced. “She called me James.”

“That bothers you.”

The shrug was still painful, but his gestural lexicon didn’t have any other synonyms. There were always words, but he preferred looks, gestures, body language. James had been the same. They could have entire conversations with a look, no words necessary. “I may have said some things.”

“Things you regret?”

“No.” He sighed and considered his options. “She’s an entitled bitch. Only thinks of herself. Makes it our fault that she never could tell us apart.”

“She blames you— and James.”

“She thinks we somehow had it easier than she did, because we’re boys. Like there weren’t expectations hanging over us, too.”

“Perhaps she’s jealous.”

“It’s not our fault that she has no ambition, no interest in doing anything with her life.”

“I meant that she might be jealous over your relationship with James.”

“Well, now she’s got Clara. And I’ve got no one.”

“You could have someone, eventually.” She leaned forward a bit. “John, the kind of bond you had with James is something not many people get to experience. I know you both dated— women and men, you’ve said. Did you ever think, though, that James might have married? What about you? Have you ever thought about a serious relationship?”

“We—” He would have to stop saying _we,_ he decided. There was no more _we._ “I don’t know. Neither of us ever got that serious about anyone. It was never something we— I needed.”

“James was seeing someone, you said.”

“Yes.”

“Have you felt any curiosity to meet this person?”

“I have met him.” He pushed the thought away, out of reach. “But they’d only just started seeing one another. I don’t know how serious it was.”

“If James had been serious about this person, how would you have felt about that?”

He remembered Jamie’s hints and teasing about Sherlock. He smiled. “He may have been serious, I think. Too soon to tell, but… I was happy for him. I wanted him to be happy, whatever that meant.”

“Do you think it would have changed your relationship?”

He shook his head. “No. We might not have seen each other as often if they moved in together, but it wouldn’t have changed _us_. Hell, we’ve been apart for three years now and we’re still…” _Were_ , he thought. _We aren’t anything now._ “We were never jealous. We talked nearly every day while I was gone, either by texting or phone. He told me about the people he dated, and I was happy for him.”

“Wouldn’t James want that for you as well? Wouldn’t he want you to be with someone?”

“Of course.”

“I want you to think about this,” she said. “It’s early still, too soon, perhaps, but you should think about your own happiness. Not that you should start hunting for a spouse, but consider what will make you happy.”

He nodded. Not yet, but maybe…

“Tomorrow might a rough day,” she said. “I think you need to plan not to be alone. Is there anyone here who you could have dinner with? Maybe meet somewhere?”

He thought of a person, imagined sitting across from him…

“I’ll call Greg,” he said.

 

Spending an evening at the pub with someone who’s just lost his soulmate could not be anyone’s idea of fun, he thought. He had Lestrade’s number, but couldn’t bring himself to call him. He simply didn’t know the man well enough to impose on him like that.

But Ella was right, being alone was not a good idea. Not today.

He didn’t have any friends. People he’d known before he left, friends from med school— how could he just call someone out of the blue? What would he say? _My twin is dead, it’s our birthday, and would you like to hang out?_

It would take a very strong friendship to withstand something like that.

Harry called, drunk. She was crying— not about James, but because Clara had reached her limit, wised up, and moved out. He hung up on her.

He turned on the telly, just to have another voice in the flat. He listened to talk shows, court shows with people arguing about trivial things, and news. He turned off the telly.

The only person he wanted to spend this evening with was dead.

The gun was still in the drawer, he remembered. He might as well unload it and put it away. He reached for the drawer pull.

Maybe not yet.

He reached for the bottle of Cutty Sark instead. No money for expensive whiskey these days. They’d never been snobs about liquor, he and James. He supposed that cheap booze ran in their veins, just as it had in their father’s. One might be able to afford being a snob about beer, but when you’re most interested in getting pissed, cheap scotch is as good as anything.

He poured himself a generous shot, drank it straight down.

He looked at the drawer. It was about a quarter of an inch open. He didn’t remember opening it, but perhaps his subconscious had done it. Perhaps his subconscious wanted…

 _I am not the type of man who does that._ People might understand, but it wasn’t right. James would understand, but would be disappointed. If he were in a position to feel anything— which he wasn’t.

He poured another shot. “To you, Jamie,” he said, raising his glass. “Well, brother, it’s our birthday. Will you not have a drink with me?” He poured a third shot. “I’m not doing all the drinking tonight, mate. Don’t let me down, now.”

He raised his glass. “To the best—”

A knock at his door interrupted the toast. Setting down his glass, he rose to his feet, noting how intoxicated he already felt. “Damn. I’m out of practice, Jamie,” he muttered as he made his way towards the door. “Used to be, I coulda driven us home after three shots. Now, I’m—”

He opened the door. A woman was standing there. She was several inches taller than him, dark hair and eyes, carefully manicured brows, meticulous make-up, perfect nails. Her height was enhanced by the heels she was wearing, he noted with a smile. _I like a woman who can look down at me,_ James had often said. _It’s a challenge. And those legs…_ John could see the attraction. In the short dress she was wearing, her legs seemed to go on forever. _People look at you differently when you’re a short man with a taller woman. They know you’ve got something…_

“You must be Laura,” he said.

She smiled. “And you have to be John. Happy birthday.” Her look softened. “Just thought you might have a drink with me.” Noting the glass in his hand, she added, “Looks like you started without me.”

He was sober enough to know that it would be a bad idea to invite her in. But the idea of company was appealing. Better than spending the evening with his gun. He and Laura owed one another nothing. They could spend an hour talking about James, but he also knew enough about this woman not to let himself get involved. Perfect.

He grabbed his cane and they headed to the pub where he’d become a regular. As they entered, the bartender and one of the servers looked up and smiled at him. _Look at me— in town just a couple weeks and already I’ve got a pub where everybody knows me._

They sat at the bar. It was less intimate, but also gave him a chance to appreciate her legs.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” she said, sipping her drink. _Cosmopolitan. A girly drink. A girly girl._ He could see what James had appreciated about her, but agreed, it wasn’t enough. Not for all that.

He’d asked for a beer, not intending to get any more pissed than he already was. “Thanks.”

“You were wounded, he said the last time we talked. Your leg?”

“Shoulder.” He’d probably have to define _psychosomatic_ for her, and that would be embarrassing for both of them. “And leg. It’s our birthday, you know.”

“I know. I got you a present. Well, it was for him. I assume you have similar taste.”

She handed him a small box. He shook it lightly. _Cologne._ She was the one who worked at a cosmetics counter, he remembered.

“Masculine, but a bit gay,” she said. “Like him.”

“Thanks. I’m sure he would have loved it.”

“He used to talk about you,” she went on. “I wanted to meet you. I’ve dated twins before. Not identicals, though.” Sipping through her drink through the tiny straw, she lowered her lashes seductively.

James had told him about this, too. “He warned me about you,” he said, giving her a suggestive smile.

She smiled. “Yeah, well. Twins. Might have been fun. Other than that,” she shrugged. “I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re a lot like him.”

“Yeah, well. Twins.”

“I broke it off, you know.”

John laughed. “You cheated on him.”

“And he would eventually have cheated on me. I could tell he was already losing interest.”

“Yeah, he was.” Any interest he might have had in this woman had evaporated. It might have been fun to flirt with her, both of them knowing that nothing serious was going on, but he suddenly had no energy for that. She might have been willing, but for her it would have been a re-run of a show she’d already lost interest in. If James had been here—

But James had already celebrated his final birthday. Years from now, there might be pictures of John, celebrating with friends, his hair now grey, his face more lined. His twin would remain forever young. No one would ever again look at John, mistaking him for James. Every year, John would grow further from his twin.

Laura was paying the bartender for their drinks. “Well, I really just wanted to meet you. And say happy birthday.” She leaned down and kissed him on the lips. Just a bit of tongue. “James was a great kisser.”

“Thanks for the drink,” he said. “And the present.”

He didn’t turn and watch her leave. He ordered another scotch, neat. His melancholy deepened.

 _Well, it’s just you and me, Jamie._ He took a sip of scotch, closed his eyes and reached out in his mind, listening for his voice. There was silence.

He thought of a birthday years ago, before he left for Afghanistan. It was the evening before he was shipping out, and he’d worn his uniform to the pub, per Jamie’s request, so he could show him off. People were wishing him well, asking when he’d be back. Lots of friends, but by the end, it was just the two of them, sitting at the bar.

 _He’s got his eye on you, Johnny,_ Jamie’d said, inclining his head towards a young man sitting with friends. _It’s the uniform that draws them_. _I knew I should have joined up, too._ He grinned, shaking his head.

 _Jamie_ , he remembered saying. _Promise me. If I die…_

 _Shut up_ , James said. _You’re not going to leave me_.

He wiped his eyes, sipped his scotch.

_No, you left me._

 

As he stood to leave, he noticed a familiar figure in the corner booth near the door.


	9. Hesitation

Sherlock’s intention had not been to stalk John, but to stop by and wish him a happy birthday. He was sure that it had been a hard day for him, his first birthday without his twin. Though he didn’t know precisely what John would be feeling, or if he would welcome company, he decided to take the risk of possible rejection, if only for James’s sake. James would not have wanted his twin to be alone today.

And he was still thinking about the gun. That must not happen.

He arrived at John’s street, the dismal block of grey flats where he was currently living. And then he had hesitated, lurking in the shadows like a bad spy, and the woman had walked up to the door and knocked. _James’s ex-girlfriend, name deleted._ He watched as they stood at the door talking, catching only a few words of the conversation, relying mostly on John’s expressions to determine what was happening between them. He saw John’s smile, his hesitation, the appreciative look he gave her legs. She didn’t enter the flat; instead, John came out the door, sliding his jacket on. They headed down the street— together, but not touching.

Relieved that the woman hadn’t talked her way inside, he made a decision, followed them at a distance. They were heading towards the corner pub where Sherlock had met him a couple weeks earlier.Once he saw them enter, he waited long enough for them to be seated, and then entered himself. It wasn’t crowded. He got a booth with a view of the bar. A tired-looking barmaid approached and asked what he’d like. He ordered a Vodka Collins.

John and the ex-girlfriend were sitting at the bar, talking. He was smiling, maybe thinking he would get lucky. The bartender gave him a scotch (undoubtedly, he’d been drinking before the woman arrived at his door); she got something pink in a martini glass.

Sherlock envied her, the ease with which she flirted. The way she looked at him through long lashes, her dark eyes laughing. The way she touched his hand, leaned a bit on his arm. She was smiling at him now, sweeping her hair off her face, flipping it behind her shoulder.

He imagined himself sitting opposite John, talking with such ease. John would flirt with him, and Sherlock would stumble over his words, trying not to look like an idiot. Flirtation wasn’t his area.

_Confusion. Doubt._ He would never find the words to say what he felt. His eyes blurred with tears and his gut clenched. He heard James’s voice whisper close, in his ears. _How did I ever get so lucky?_

Sherlock had been lucky, twice, to find such a man. He hadn’t expected James, had been content to admire him, pining for what he didn’t think he could have. And then James had said, _I’m flirting with you_ , and he’d gained what he had only hoped for.

And then he'd lost.

But now there was John. Fool that he was, Sherlock had hesitated yet again. _I’m not a normal person. I don’t have friends._ This time, he’d lost even before it began.

The woman was handing John a present. Silver paper, small box. _Cologne_ , he deduced. She didn’t like the Kenzo he’d worn. Judging by her makeup and hair (overdone, verging on whorish), she had picked out something spicy and oriental. Too heavy, completely out of character for James. He predicted that John would also hate it.

He hadn’t opened the present. He was smiling. _But it was good he hadn’t opened it, right?_ They still appeared to be flirting. But maybe there was a chance—

_Why do I always hesitate?_ As a rule, he was not an indecisive man, but when it came to this, he felt stupid and slow. His tongue became heavy in his mouth, and even if he’d been able to think of something to say, he wouldn’t have been able to say it. He would have stammered, overthinking it, watching John’s reaction with fear.

John was laughing, the sound going through Sherlock like an arrow. He felt faint, his ears ringing with that golden sound. _James laughing. James smiling, touching him, kissing him…_

She was kissing John now, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. A kiss on the lips, just a gentle press, a bit of tongue. But she was leaving, sliding off the stool, taking her bag, laying money on the bar. It was her parting shot, then. John gave her a smile and a slight shrug. She’d not been successful. Perhaps John would rethink it, call her later.

Then she was walking out of the pub.

He felt paralysed. If he’d been a normal person (which he was _not not not_ ), he might have strolled over to the bar and greeted John. He might have found the right pitch, the right tone, the right words. He might have expressed surprise at finding him here, pleasure at running into him again. He might have bought him a drink, made conversation. All these things might have happened. But now he had no words. He was deaf, mute, immobilised by his doubt.

Hesitation was his undoing. He could never approach John Watson. Never flirt with him (if that had even been possible, if he’d even known how). Never sit and have a drink and laugh about whatever people laugh about when they’re testing the waters, looking for a reaction. When they’re in love. Never lay his hand casually on his arm or look into his eyes (James’s eyes) and say, _I love you, too._ It would just be too awkward, dating his twin. It would be all wrong. John would never believe—

“You stalking me?”

He opened his eyes and looked up.

John, grinning at him. Drink in hand, but steady enough. Roguish smile. “Don’t tell me you frequent this pub too. As much time as I’ve spent here, I would’ve seen you.”

“John,” he said. Because that’s who it was and this wasn’t a dream. And he hadn’t had enough alcohol to make him imagine things. Or enough to loosen his inhibitions. John had come over to talk to him. He was sliding into the booth, facing him.

“Mind if I join you? Or are you expecting someone?”

“No, please. I’m alone.” _Probably a permanent condition._

“So am I.” He smiled. “What brings you over here? This isn’t your neighbourhood, is it?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling caught out, embarrassed. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” _Not good?_ Well, John knew it was his birthday, and Sherlock acknowledging the occasion couldn’t possibly make him feel worse than he did.

John nodded. “You knew.”

“I have an eidetic memory for numbers and dates. But not for names, ironically. It’s both a blessing and a curse.” _Boring. What do people talk about? Why am I so bad at this? Next, I’ll be talking about my mould experiments._ At this thought, he felt tears stinging his eyes.

“You followed me here?”

“No. I mean, yes, but not surreptitiously. Well, I wasn’t sure— I wasn’t intending to stalk you, but I wasn’t sure you would want— and then that woman was at your door and so I followed you here. I wasn’t spying. I just— Happy Birthday, John.”

John giggled. _Oh, God, that sound._ “It’s a lovely surprise, being stalked so un-surreptitiously.”

“I just thought, maybe you’d want company,” he said. “Well, maybe not. Your lady friend has not cheered you up, so it’s unlikely that I can say anything that will do so. I’m not very good at cheering people up. In general, I’m not very good at… erm…”

“People?” said John.

At this, Sherlock felt himself losing it. He began to slide out of the booth, grappling for his handkerchief, which seemed to have gone missing. “Excuse me, I think I ought to—” And then he was sobbing.

John was at his side, pushing him back into the booth, sitting beside him, patting his hand and, just by these small actions, reminding him of all the things he’d loved about James. “Hey, it’s all right. Not a very good day for you, either.”

It took him a few minutes to regain his self-control. John waited.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t intend to unleash my grief on you. It’s not fair. I… I loved him, but he was your brother. And I am terrible at this sort of thing, offering condolences and saying _my heart goes out to you_ and not knowing what else to say because what can one say when something this terrible happens?” _Saying all the wrong things._ “I should go. Leave you to—”

John shook his head. “No. Stay. People have been sending condolences to me all week, but no one’s allowed you to grieve. Being accused of his murder— well, everyone’s ignoring you, aren’t they? It isn’t right.”

He couldn’t look at John because he wanted to kiss him.

“Finish your drink,” John said. “Would you like to walk a bit?”

 

“There are so many parks in London,” John said. “That’s one thing I love about the city. So much green. And water.”

“You didn’t grow up here,” Sherlock said.

John shook his head. “Glasgow. School in Edinburgh.”

“Your accent is more pronounced than his.”

John smiled. “He spent more time in London.”

“And you wanted to distance yourself from him.”

“He wanted to distance himself from me,” John replied. “He didn’t have to say. I felt it. As the older brother, always at his elbow, cautioning him, I knew he didn’t want that anymore.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Older? By seven minutes. Hardly seems significant. But I suppose twins need to define themselves.”

“You have a brother,” John said.

“Seven _years_ older,” Sherlock clarifies. “I can’t see you running James’s life in the same way Mycroft attempts to control mine.”

John shook his head. “You’d be surprised. I can be an interfering git, too.”

They walked in silence for a while, close to one another, but not touching. To Sherlock, it felt like falling into step with an old friend. John was not James, but he carried his aura. It embarrassed him that he’d lost his composure in the pub, that he’d practically cried on this man’s shoulder, when John was carrying a much heavier weight of grief. 

_Would James have walked with me like this? Would we have grown accustomed to shared silence, learned to read one another’s moods?_ He saw the closeness of friends and family that others seemed to take for granted. He had never been so easy around others, not even his own family. He wore his isolation like a shield ( _Alone protects me_ ), learned to tolerate the ridicule.

He thought of Victor, the friend who’d made him feel almost normal for a brief time, giving him a glimpse into the world where other people had friends and talked about rugby and what was on the telly last night and who fancies whom. James had opened that door for him, too, and lit the way inside. _My conductor of light…_

“You still in there?” John was smiling up at him.

“Sorry. I was just thinking about…”

“It’s fine. We don’t have to talk.”

They stopped, facing one another. John was smiling. Not very drunk, Sherlock thought. _I’m flirting with you._ He might never have known, had James not been brave enough to bridge the gap. He’d gone weeks without realising that’s what it was.

He smiled back, feeling bashful and uncertain. _Why do I always hesitate?_ But he couldn’t. It wasn’t the right time. Maybe weeks from now, months from now, they would be friends and there would be a natural moment when he could flirt with John. A cheesy line, perhaps. _Wanna come up and see my mould experiments?_ John would laugh, and they would both understand. They would kiss, and it would be fine.

“Sherlock.” John was slipping an arm around his waist, rising up on his toes, his other hand resting behind Sherlock’s head. And just like that, they were kissing.

He closed his eyes, going inside the kiss, feeling warm and a bit urgent. He let his tongue play over John’s lips, heard the sound he made, a small hum of delight in his throat. John pulled him closer. He was wearing the same scent James had worn, and his memory of that night returned sharply, weakening his knees and making him feel desperate. “James…”

John pulled away. He was breathing heavily, his pupils still dilated with desire. “I’m not him.” He turned his head and closed his eyes. “You think— you want—” He shook his head slowly. “I’m not him.”

“I didn’t mean—” God, what had he meant? He knew he was kissing John, not James. But James was in his head, always there, it seemed, materialising at unexpected moments. He had been thinking of James. How could he not? He could still count it in days. Forty days since their first kiss. Thirty-nine days since their last. Since his death.

“Never mind,” said John. _Anger, disappointment._ “I can’t— This is— I’ve got to go.” Impatiently, he looked around. “What’d I do with my cane?”

“You left it at the pub,” Sherlock said, suddenly seeing the puzzle resolve. _The cane, the limp, James’s bruise_. “I was wrong. I said you don’t need it when you think of him, but that’s not true. That’s not what it is.” He smiled at the simplicity of the thing. “The limp disappears when you’re _not_ thinking of him. You forget you need the cane when—”

“Shut up!” John growled. “Stop it. Just— leave me alone.”

 

He watched John limp away.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._ He’d done everything wrong. The sneaking, lurking in the shadows, stalking him to the pub. The breaking down, the ugly crying. The walking, the revelations— the kiss, for God’s sake. The kiss might have been fine, even brilliant, but then he had to ruin it. Not good, kissing a man and saying the name of his dead brother.

He hadn’t meant to say it. It was impossible for him not to think of James when he was with John. Every single time he looked at John, he saw James. He remembered everything about James. But he could see how it seemed to John. He was probably already conflicted about taking up with his dead brother’s lover, but clearly whatever had attracted James to Sherlock was some internal setting that they shared.

He had heard of twins, separated at birth, who years later meet and find that they use the same toothpaste, sell insurance, have wives named Amelia, schnauzers named Dolly, and houses with blue aluminium siding. John and James, having spent their lives together, not separated, would have even more similarities, he hypothesised. It was apparently in their DNA to be attracted to tall, dark-haired detectives with awkward social skills and a tendency to make deductions at the worst moments.

_It’s when you’re not thinking of him that you forget you need the cane._ Brilliant deduction, wrong moment. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_.


	10. Imperfect Replica

“How did you spend your birthday?”

Ella sat in her chair and he positioned himself in the other chair, the one for people who were supposed to be talking to her. Facing one another, slightly angled so eye contact wasn’t required. She must have done a study or something to determine the correct angle to face a patient with trust issues. Not straight on, forcing him to look at her every time he raised his eyes. Just enough of an angle that he could look up and see her, but also look away without being forced to stare at his hands or his shoes or the painting on the wall behind her. _Why do people like paintings of vases of flowers_ , he wondered. _Just get a real vase and stick some real flowers inside._

He shrugged. “I went to a pub with my brother’s ex-girlfriend, then snogged his boyfriend.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “How did that go?”

Another shrug. _Painful_. “He called me James.”

“How did that make you feel?”

He sorted through the tangle of emotions he’d been feeling since that moment. “I dunno. I guess it bothered me. I told him off.”

“Like you told off Harry when she did the same.”

“Yeah.” He nodded and studied the flowers in the vase.

“Are you attracted to him?”

“I kissed him, didn’t I?”

Ella’s expression didn’t change. “And he kissed you.”

“No, he was kissing James,” John said.

He found himself thinking, not for the first time, of what his post-Afghanistan life would have been if James had not died. How would Sherlock have fit into that? He and James had always negotiated romantic territory with care, not wanting to lose one another over some petty jealousy. They never said it, but both knew it: no woman— or man— was worth that. They had _co-dated_ a couple times. That was what they’d called it. Those relationships were never very serious. That was what Laura had been. She clearly had a kink for twins, and James had exploited that until it became clear that aside from her kinky inclinations (and those lovely, long legs), there wasn’t much interesting about her. And Sherlock— breathtaking, brilliant— had taken all his attention away.

James would not have shared this time. He’d told John nothing about his new love interest— except _I’m not sharing._

John didn’t push, knowing that, in time, James would reveal all. There were no secrets between them. And John would have been drawn to Sherlock. For his brother’s sake, he would have refrained from hitting on him, but he wondered now how long he could have sustained that. James would know how he felt, and things would become awkward. It would be like every other time they’d competed for something— only this time, it might have been worse. Sherlock could have been the one that finally tore them apart.

“You’re afraid he’s interested only because you remind him of James.”

John began to shrug again, but instead rotated his shoulder to loosen the tension in it. There had rarely been any jealousy between them. But now, distance had made that possible. Had James lived, they might have collided over this. John, wounded and self-pitying, seeing his able-bodied brother and his gorgeous boyfriend— yeah, he would have been resentful. “He’s still in love with James.”

“How long had they been together?”

“As a couple, one day.”

“So, not very long at all. You don’t know what would have happened, John. It’s hard to predict a relationship based on initial attraction. _Love at first sight_ notwithstanding.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you think he’s grieving your brother?”

“Yeah, I think he is. He’s kind of awkward. Doesn’t relate well to people. Brilliant, but socially inept. Somewhere on the spectrum, maybe, a bit of an Aspie. Something like that. Seems kind of lost.”

“Could he be confused by his attraction to you? Could he be uncertain how to deal with his feelings— first about James, and now you?”

John remembered Sherlock’s face when he pulled away. _Confusion, fear, regret, sadness…_

And he suddenly understood that the root of the problem was not Sherlock, but himself. Sherlock was grieving for James, confused by John, and not socially adept enough to know how to deal with these feelings. And John was afraid. Afraid that Sherlock was only interested because he was so much like James. That Sherlock would find him wanting, compared to James. That Sherlock would decide that an invalided ex-army doctor with PTSD was too much trouble.

Ella was looking at him expectantly.

He licked his lips, looked at the clock. Seventeen minutes. He could cut the session short, give some flimsy excuse for leaving. But that would be running away. He steeled himself.

“I feel… I’m afraid,” he said. “He lost James. And then a perfect replica appears. Only… only I’m not perfect.”

She smiled. “Nobody is.”

“What if… what if he doesn’t…” He drew a deep breath. “What if I’m not…”

“John. You’re not James. I think part of what is hard for you right now is simply sorting out who you are without him.”

“I’m ordinary,” John said. “I’m nobody you’d notice.”

“Somebody has noticed,” she said. “Maybe you’re not ready for that. But don’t rule it out. You are more than James’s twin.”

 

He thought about buying himself a birthday present. A new mobile was something he needed. His old one seemed to be giving up the ghost, no longer holding a charge. In the London he’d returned to, everyone seemed to have their eyes glued to a phone, many of them much larger than the flip-phones he’d been used to. He and James had bought themselves matching Nokias before he’d left for Afghanistan, small enough to slip into any pocket, but with the ability to take decent pictures and do email in addition to texting.

The shop had more models that he could take in. And the prices for what he’d wanted were much higher than he’d expected. He tucked his four-year-old Nokia back into his pocket when the salesman laughed. “I haven’t seen one of these in ages,” he’d said.

John supposed that in tech-years, it had been eons since he’d had a new mobile. His old Nokia was a dinosaur. Most likely, he was one as well.

 

Harry came to town again. She looked wrecked. “Don’t even say it,” she told him.

“Yeah, well. It’s good to see you, too,” he said, inviting her in. “Sorry about Clara.” _Pointless to lecture her_ , he thought.

“I have a birthday present for you.” She reached into her bag, tossed her phone to him. “It’s yours.”

He turned it over in his hand, looked at the engraving. _Harry Watson. From Clara. XXX._ “This is your phone,” he said. “A re-gift? Seriously?” Trust Harry to use him as a means to dispose of an unwanted gift.

“It was a gift from _her,_ when we first became a couple _._ I don’t want to see it again. And it’s a hell of a lot nicer than anything you’d buy for yourself.” She waited while he examined it. “So. You’re welcome.”

He sighed. It was probably the most expensive thing she’d ever given him, overlooking the fact that she hadn’t actually paid for it. “Thanks.”

She had found the scotch and was pouring a generous amount into a tumbler. “Did they figure out who killed James yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe they ought to get Sherlock Bloody Holmes to solve it,” she said, dropping onto the couch.

For a moment he was stunned. Then he realised that she knew about Holmes the way most people did, through the news. She didn’t know that James had been seeing him. _Better leave it alone,_ he thought. Harry had a way of making anything into a major deal, and he definitely didn’t want to talk about it.

“Who do you think did it?” she asked. “Did he tell you anything?”

“No idea. He didn’t say anything.” He remembered again the odd feeling he’d had the last few times they’d spoken.

“I don’t know why he had to get mixed up with that sort of thing,” she went on. “Why couldn’t he have just worked at a hospital? You two.” She glared at John. “Always have to be where the bullets are flying. And look where it’s got you. He’s dead and you’re a cripple.”

“Yeah. Way to cheer up the cripple.” He slumped into his chair.

“You know what I mean, Johnny. Neither of you can keep your nose out of anything that smells dangerous. Adrenaline junkies, both of you. I’m surprised you’re not bothering that detective bloke, the grey fox from Scotland Yard.”

“Lestrade? He’s off the case.”

“Why? Was he up to something dodgy as well?”

He sat up. “Dodgy? What do you mean?”

She snorted and poured more scotch into her glass. “What? James didn’t say anything to you?”

“About what?”

“Probably didn’t want to worry you. You being shot and all.” She waved her free hand dismissively, as if his being _shot and all_ had inconvenienced her.

“What did he say?”

“It was a few days after he returned from Germany, when he’d been to see you in hospital. He was angry because I’d said I wouldn’t go. I said I hadn’t been able to call off from work and that you probably didn’t care if I came or not.”

He sighed, clenching his weak hand into a fist so it would stop trembling. “Harry. What the fuck did he say?”

“Said he was busy too, but if he could make the time, I could. Said he was always in the middle of something, but family should come first. Guilt, guilt, more guilt—”

“He said something was dodgy?”

Harry shrugged. “He mentioned a case he was working on that didn’t look right.”

“What case? Did he use the word _dodgy_?”

“I don’t remember. He caught me at a bad time, having a fight with Clara.”

“You were drunk.”

“Look, Johnny, I probably misunderstood. He was upset about you, talking off the cuff. Probably didn’t mean anything.”

“Did he say any names?”

She sighed and swirled the amber liquid in her glass. “I don’t remember. He mentioned a woman, someone he worked with. She’d died. Cancer or something.”

_A friend who died of cancer_. “How was that a case?”

“How should I know? He said he was working on something and this woman had died before he got to talk to her. Something wasn’t right about it, he said.”

“Try to remember, Harry. What wasn’t right about it?”

She frowned and reached for the bottle again. He grabbed it off the table before she could touch it.

“I can’t remember,” she said. She would turn stubborn now and begin to pout.

“Harry, this might be important,” he said, trying for a reasonable tone. “Please try to think.”

“You think this has something to do with him dying?”

“Maybe.”

She closed her eyes. “He said, _Look, I’m sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night._ Something like that. _I’m upset about Johnny and this thing with…_ Anna? Abby? Amy? I didn’t know who she was, so it didn’t matter to me. He said she’d just been found dead, in her flat. It was cancer… but it wasn’t. I don’t know. He was going to talk to her and she’d died. I guess he thought she’d killed herself.” She opened her eyes. “Johnny, do you think…”

“James didn’t kill himself. The killer tried to stage it like a suicide, but the hand was wrong, the angle… He wouldn’t.”

She shook her head in agreement. “No, he wouldn’t have done that.” She cocked her head and studied him. “You wouldn’t either. But you _are_ depressed. Even I can see it. You need to clear your head. When was the last time you had sex?”

“Sex is not the answer to every problem, Harry. Neither is scotch.” But he smiled.

She shrugged and grinned. “Maybe not. But won’t make it worse.”

 

He found the crumpled slip of paper in his jacket pocket, opened Harry’s old phone and dialled the number. It went straight to voice mail.

“Erm… Sherlock,” he began. Saying anything specific on the phone might not be good. Sherlock had intimated that someone might be watching him, which meant that someone also might be monitoring his phone. “It’s John Watson. I’m sorry about… I was a bit… erm. Well, we should talk. Soon. This is my new number. Please call me as soon as you get this.”

 

He’d promised Ella that he would make an effort. Otherwise, he’d never have found himself in the basement of a church, sitting on a plastic chair, part ofa circle of people who all looked like they’d lost their best friend. He assumed they all had.

“My husband can’t understand,” said one woman. “He lost his sister two years ago. They were close, but… he doesn’t understand why I’m still a mess a year after losing Renee.”

“His girlfriend was driving,” said a man. “She wasn’t drunk or anything. Just bad luck. She lived, and Danny died. She’s the one person who might even come close to feeling what I feel. But she won’t even see me.”

“I can’t even get out of bed,” a woman said. “Ben wasn’t my identical twin, but we were so much alike. I keep thinking of things I need to tell him, and when I remember he’s gone…”

Then it was his turn.

“I’m John,” he said. “My brother James was murdered.”

There were murmurs of sympathy, nods of understanding.

“Were you identicals?” a woman asked.

He nodded. “He was the best part of me.”

Like physio, it was painful. But it did help.


	11. Some Kind of Sync

After a sleepless night of self-recrimination, Sherlock decided to go to the morgue. Even if Molly was in one of her moods, there were always the bodies. A nice murder to cheer him up.

Molly was not in one of her moods, at least not the moods where she said cryptic things and glared at him. “Hi, Sherlock,” she said. “I’m sorry about James.”

_Everybody knows_ , he thought. “Poison,” he said. “Any bodies?”

“We haven’t had any poisonings lately,” she said. “Not since Amy.”

“Amy?”

“You knew her,” Molly replied. “The woman in records. Amy Nolan. She had cancer. Ovarian, I think. The cancer returned and she killed herself.”

He shuddered. _Who would choose poison as a means of killing themselves?_ The agony might be brief, but there were easier, cleaner ways. Ways that didn’t involve vomit.

“She might have hanged herself,” he commented. “Quicker. Less painful.”

Molly frowned. “You shouldn’t joke about it.”

It always surprised him when people thought he was joking. As if he knew how to do that. “I wasn't.”

“Sherlock.” Molly was giving him a look now, something between fondness and exasperation. She was used to him. “I understand what you’re saying. But when people are desperate, they might not think about it the same as you do. They just want a way out.”

“I only meant, poison is painful. Messy. Not an ideal method, from the viewpoint of those who find the victim.”

She was silent.

He cast a look at her. “Not good?” _Shouldn’t one care about those who find the body?_ This made him think about the day he had to look at James, dead. He closed his eyes.

“I know you’re sad, Sherlock,” she said, a little furrow of concern forming on her brow. “But you’re not thinking about…”

“No,” he said. He definitely did not want to die. He’d loved James, had never thought he’d have that. As sad as he’d been these last weeks, he hadn’t thought about suicide. “I would never do that.”

“Good,” she said. “James wouldn’t have wanted that.”

He remembered Amy, a blond woman with a cheeky smile. And he remembered how upset James was when she died. _She wouldn’t kill herself,_ he’d said. _She wanted to live. She would have done chemo again if she had to._ “Where did she get the cyanide?”

“Maybe from the evidence room. There was a poisoning a few months before.”

“Wasn’t there an investigation of her suicide?”

“I suppose. But I don’t think it would be hard for someone working at the Met to get cyanide.”

“James knew her,” he said.

She nodded. “He came to see her body after she died. Said she was a nice lady, that he used to talk with her.” She smiled. “He was always nice to people.”

“Yes, he was.”

“He really liked you, Sherlock.” Her eyes shone. “He told me so. Said he’d been trying to flirt with you for weeks, but you didn’t notice.”

He studied his shoes. _I’m an idiot. If I’d only noticed, things would have happened differently._

She lay her hand on his. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“So am I,” he said.

 

It was nearing noon. He hadn’t made it back to his flat yet when he was met by a man in a dark hoodie, loitering under the awning at Speedy’s.

“Hello, Anderson.” _Cloak and dagger fixation_ , he thought.

“We need to talk,” Anderson replied.

“You might as well come up,” he said. “My brother has removed all the bugs from my flat. He was rather peeved about it, butthat is more or less a chronic condition with him.”

“Your brother bugs your flat?”

“From time to time.” He pulled open the door of 221B. “It makes him feel useful.”

Sherlock made tea. Anderson sat in the other chair, looking uncomfortable. Sherlock couldn’t remember ever seeing the man look at ease. He supposed that was a problem with being incompetent. One could never be sure when things one hadn’t foreseen would come and kick one’s arse.

“I’ve learned a few things,” he said.

“And you’re sure no one suspects that you’re investigating this?”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Holmes.”

Sherlock forced himself to smile and keep his thoughts to himself. “Proceed.”

“Lestrade was looking for the phone,” he began.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Sherlock. “It’s been wiped.”

Anderson nodded. “Correct. They picked up a kid trying to sell it to an undercover cop yesterday.”

“Red herring. Meant to keep the division occupied and off the scent. What’s Lestrade looking at now? The crime scene should have been staged better, if it was a hit. The fact that the murderer didn’t try to make it look like a break-in is significant. Does he have any theories on that?”

“No, but I’m sure you do,” Anderson replied. “In any case, it doesn’t matter what he’s thinking. He’s off the case.”

This Sherlock hadn’t expected. “Why?”

Anderson shrugged. “Chief said he was biased because Watson had worked with him.”

“Ridiculous. As if he couldn’t conduct a proper investigation just because he knew him. But it suggests that someone is working behind the scenes to slow things down.”

“That’s what I thought, too. I asked Lestrade about it, but he wouldn’t say anything.”

“Have you looked at Watson’s email?”

“They shut his account down. Standard procedure when an officer dies.”

“I mean,” Sherlock said, with emphasis, “his private email account.”

“How would I get that?” Anderson sounded petulant. “We weren’t _that_ close.”

He sighed. This would mean contacting John. “I’ll handle it.”

Anderson stood. “It isn’t much, I know. The new records clerk is a Doberman, won’t let me near the file room. I’ve been trying to chat her up, but doubt that she’ll tell me anything.”

“The old records clerk.” He said. “Amy Nolan. She killed herself.”

Anderson nodded. “We were all surprised. Thought she was doing better.”

“Cyanide. Somewhat unusual method of suicide.”

“You’re thinking of the ‘serial suicides.’” Smirking, Anderson made air quotes.

He recalled the case well, mostly because it had never been solved. Three unlikely suicides, all using the same poison. Bodies found in odd locations. No notes. He’d been convinced they were linked, but the link was never found.

“They were never solved,” Sherlock said.

“Nothing to solve. Coincidence.”

Sherlock shook his head. “The universe is rarely so lazy. They were connected. James knew it, too.”

“You think it’s related to his murder, that somebody at the Met is involved?”

“Pointless to speculate without sufficient evidence.” He frowned at Anderson. “That’s your job, to find it.”

 

After Anderson left, he stared stupidly at his mobile for a few moments. Then he remembered. He’d given John his number, but never heard from him. He might get his number from Lestrade, but that was probably not wise. The DI would think he was trying to meddle in the investigation. Though that was true, it probably wasn’t smart to advertise it.

A visit to John’s flat would be necessary. That might end with a door slammed in his face, but he had long ago recognised the costs of being Sherlock Holmes: insults, ridicule, slammed doors, and occasional bloody noses.

Just as he slipped the mobile back into his pocket, it buzzed. _Mycroft._

He might ignore his brother, as he often did, but that would mean an eventual visit from an even grumpier Mycroft. He might as well get it over with.

“I’m fine,” he said, skipping the pointless greetings. “Not using any substances. Or will you be sending someone over with a specimen cup to verify that?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Mycroft replied. “How is Doctor Watson?”

“How would I know?” Inwardly, he groaned. Clearly, his attempts to avoid CCTV had not succeeded.

Mycroft didn’t deign to answer. “Stay out of it, Sherlock. He has enough to manage without you trailing him like a lovesick puppy.”

“It was his birthday. _Their_ birthday. He doesn’t have friends in town, and I thought I’d buy him a drink. That’s all. I am staying out of the investigation. You can ask Lestrade.”

“As we both know, Lestrade has been removed from the case. Yes, I was aware. He called to tell me he’d been sidelined, and to warn you to keep out of it.”

“Why did they really remove him?” Sherlock couldn’t resist asking. “Is something going on at NSY?”

“Even if I knew, I could not tell you, brother,” Mycroft replied.

Which meant, of course, that he did know. “I’m staying out of it. I promise.”

“If your promises were worth even a penny, Sherlock, I would be able to retire by now.”

“Well, perhaps you should have set your sights higher,” he replied cheekily. “If you had aimed at more than _a minor clerkship_ — If that huge ego of yours had aimed at a loftier post in the British government, perhaps— Oh, _wait_! You _are_ the British government!”

“Sarcasm does not become you, little brother,” Mycroft said icily. “Perhaps you’re spending too much time with Philip Anderson. You and he seem to have become _pals_.” He pronounced the word with distaste.

Of course, Mycroft had seen through the man’s imbecilic disguise. “He came to me. I did not encourage him.”

“Heed my warning,” Mycroft said.

 

_I need to stop behaving like an adolescent girl,_ he thought. It did no good for him to be mooning around, wondering whether John liked him or hated him. His indecision and lack of confidence had made everything worse. If he’d just admitted their relationship, braved the ridicule and doubt, he could have gotten ahead of things. He might have solved the case by now. Now he was stuck on the sidelines, sniffing for tidbits.

His mobile buzzed. _Missed call. Voicemail._

“Erm… Sherlock. It’s John Watson. I’m sorry about… I was a bit… erm. Well, we should talk. Soon. This is my new number. Please call me as soon as you get this.”

He was pressing _call back_ before he finished listening to John’s message.

 

John opened the door, inviting him inside. The flat, he noted, was drab but tidy, the same type of boring bedsit he himself had lived in— only his had never been this tidy.

_James was tidy, too._ He pushed the memories of that other flat away. Sentiment was only going to cloud his vision now.

John was apologetic. “The other night,” he said. “I’m sorry for the way I acted.”

“Think nothing of it,” Sherlock said. “It is I who should apologise to you.”

John smiled and turned a bit pink. They stood awkwardly for a few seconds that felt like ten minutes. “It’s all fine, Sherlock,” John said. “I’m not angry. It’s just… I’m not used to this yet. I shouldn’t have… You did nothing wrong.”

“No, I should not have presumed upon our… acquaintance. I didn’t intend to cause you any—”

John shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. But let me tell you why I’ve called.”

It was 15:33. They sat facing one another, Sherlock on the sofa, John in the chair. What he had to tell him wasn’t much, but it echoed what Molly and Anderson had said. _A woman had died, supposedly of cancer. Or maybe she’d killed herself_. _James might have known something_.

“Amy Nolan,” he said at once. “She was a records clerk. James used to flirt with her a bit, just to keep on her good side. He always flirted with the rank and file women, the office staff. And they would drop everything for him if he needed a favour.”

“Everything Harry said was vague,” John said. “She was drunk when they talked, and might have imagined most of it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Generally alcohol makes a drinker forget things, not remember things that didn’t happen. I’m sure he said something to her, and she was sober enough for it to register on some level.”

“How well did you know the woman?”

“I’d met her, never knew her well. I knew that she’d had cancer a couple years ago, went through chemo. They found her in her apartment, dead— presumably suicide. I wasn’t involved in that investigation because it seemed clear what had happened. Her cancer had returned and she didn’t think she had a chance. James thought it was rubbish. _She wouldn’t kill herself,_ he said. I didn’t know her well enough to speculate, but could see he was troubled by her death. That was weeks before we became… er… well, we didn’t talk about it then.” _Perhaps he would have confided in me eventually._

“So, do you think something was dodgy?” John asked. “Why would someone kill her?”

“To keep her from telling something she knew.”

“About what?”

“I’m less sure about that. She may have been involved in something _dodgy_ , as you say. Perhaps she had a confederate at the Met who was afraid she was going to reveal what she knew. She was a records clerk, so she would have had access to various types of information. Perhaps she was not involved in any wrongdoing herself, but she might have noticed someone else who was.”

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I wish he’d told someone what he suspected.”

“He may have been unsure about who was involved,” Sherlock suggested. “Corruption is a dangerous thing to expose. But we may be able to find out what was going on without exposing ourselves. Do you have access to your brother’s personal email?”

John nodded. “We knew one another’s passwords.” He grabbed his laptop and typed in his password. Sherlock watched as his fingers laboriously pecked at the keys: _imthesmartone._ Opening the browser, he navigated to Gmail, typed [ianjwatson@gmail.com](mailto:ijwatson@gmail.com) and entered the password: _imthecuteone_.

Sherlock chuckled. “I thought you were the cute one.”

John blushed. “It’s a joke. Nobody could tell us apart.”

The email opened to the inbox. John scrolled down a bit, past several pieces of junk. “I’ll just search senders.” He typed in _Amy Nolan._

Three emails, three attachments, all medical reports. “They must have talked,” said Sherlock. “These were all sent the week before she died.”

John had clicked open the first report. Sitting at his side, Sherlock scanned it.

“What are we looking for?” John asked.

“Any commonalities. Details of the crime scene, anything about the body. People involved in the investigation. Open the second one.”

After ten minutes of skimming the reports, John said, “They’re all suicides. Same method.”

“I suspected that they were linked somehow, but was never able to figure out how.” It pained him to admit he hadn’t solved it. “None of them left notes. No indication that any of them were depressed, no personality changes— none of the typical signs.”

“It’s very common for family and friends not to notice,” John said. “The signs are rather subtle. Often people seem less depressed, even happy, when they’ve made the decision to end it all.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Same method, poison. An unusual choice. All found in unexpected locations.”

“Yeah, I get why it’s odd. But there haven’t been any for months.”

“Unless we count Amy Nolan.”

John was reading the third report. “Who’s Harris? He’s signed all three.”

“Has he?” Sherlock grabbed the mouse, clicked on each report in turn. “Andrew Harris. He’s in the coroner’s office.”

“Well, that’s expected, isn’t it?” John frowned at him. “On first glance, I don’t see anything out of place. Maybe she was just sending these to show James there was nothing suspicious. No evidence of wrong-doing.”

“And perhaps she was killed because someone mistakenly thought she’d discovered something they hoped to keep hidden. If she was murdered, there had to be something…”

“Was she murdered?” John asked. “James was upset about her death, but maybe it was a suicide.”

“Like the others?” Sherlock was already putting on his coat. “The others that obviously were _not_ suicides, but murders made to appear as suicides?”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to Lestrade.”

“He’s off the case, Sherlock.”

“Precisely why I need to talk to him.”

John was on his feet. “Take me with you.”

“No. I want you to go through the reports with a fine-tooth comb. Compare every detail. There has to be something we’re missing.”

John smiled. “We? As in _you and I_?”

At the door, he paused and turned. “You and I. Yes.” He stood there for a moment, gazing at John (still smiling that glorious smile) and wondering at the fact that they’d just fallen into some kind of sync with each other. _We. You and I._

“You’re about to get yourself in trouble, aren’t you?” John folded his arms across his chest.

“That isn’t my intention.”

John shook his head. “The road to hell—”

_Maybe it’s the moment_ , he thought. He hesitated.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” John’s smile was soft, fond. “I’d like to see you back in one piece.”

“John,” he said. He wanted…but his feet did not move. _Why do I always hesitate?_

John took a step towards him, raised his hands to grab his lapels, and pulled him close. Their lips met. For a moment Sherlock stopped thinking. He felt John— his mouth, his warmth, his body. _John, just John_.

“It’s okay,” John said, pulling back. “There’ll be time later. Go on, find Lestrade. Be brilliant. Just… come back, okay?”

“I will,” he breathed. “I’ll come back.”

John gave him a little push out the door. “Off with you, then.” Standing on the threshold, he smiled at Sherlock. 

“Don’t wait up, John.” Grinning, he swirled his coat flirtatiously and ran down the stairs. On the ground floor, he paused with one hand on the door.

He’d kissed John Watson. He’d held him in his arms, felt his lips against his, inhaled his scent. And he hadn’t thought of James.


	12. The Bigger Picture

John rubbed his eyes. He was tired of staring at the PDF reports on his rubbish laptop. He’d make a cup of tea, he decided, and sit with his eyes closed for a while. Not sleeping, just resting. Then he’d finish doing what Sherlock had asked him to do.

Before he’d filled the kettle, there was a knock on the door. More like a heavy pounding. He peered through the peephole in the door. A large man holding a box. A man he’d never seen before. Sherlock Holmes could probably have deduced the man’s mother’s maiden name just from the way he was holding himself, but all John could tell was that he was a policeman.

“Mr Lestrade sent me,” the knocker said. A look of belated caution passed over his heavy brow. “You’re John Watson, right?”

“I am. Is that for me?”

“Mr Lestrade asked me to bring this by. It’s your brother’s things. His flat’s been cleared out and we don’t need any of this as evidence, so he said to bring it by and see if you want it.” He hefted the box’s weight to his other arm. “Do you…?”

“Of course. Bring it in. You can set it there,” he said, gesturing to an empty corner.

“Sorry,” the man grunted, bending and trying to gently set down the box. “About your brother, I mean.” Panting, he straightened up. “I knew him. Good man, Doctor Watson was.”

“Thank you. Is this everything?”

“More’s coming up,” he replied. As he spoke, two more cops carrying boxes appeared in the doorway. John pointed them to the corner. Two more trips and there was a tower of boxes in the corner.

“Guv said to tell you, we’ve kept back a few things. Just ask if you’re missing something you expected to find.”

“Thank Mr Lestrade for me, if you would,” John said, seeing them out the door.

 

He peeked into each box, assessing its contents, though he had no intention of even thinking about what to do with James’s things just yet, much less unpacking them. Too soon. He noted that one box held a printer, and it occurred to him that it might be useful. He hooked it up to his old laptop and decided to test it by printing out the reports he was reading.

That done, he settled into his chair and began to read the reports more closely, making a few notes in the margins of each page. While there was nothing overtly suspicious in the details of each case, there were curious similarities. Sherlock was right, he decided: there must be some connection. And if Sherlock was right, there was a good chance that Amy had not killed herself.

Another knock at the door signalled a second visitor. When he opened the door, Lestrade stood there.

“Hey, John,” he said. He looked unbearably weary and sad. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d want all this, but it’s standard procedure to offer it to the family. Otherwise, we donate it. Let me know if you don’t want it. I can have my boys deal with it.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m not sure what I want to do at this point.”

“No hurry.”

“Can I fix you some tea? I was just about to make a cup for myself.”

He nodded, smiling. “If it’s no trouble, that would be great.”

They chatted as the kettle came to a boil, then took their mugs back into the sitting area. John moved his laptop and the printed reports so Lestrade could sit on the sofa. One of the pages fluttered to the floor and Lestrade bent to retrieve it.

“What’s this?” he said. “Where did you get a confidential medical report?”

“Someone sent it— and these other two— to my brother’s personal email. I was looking over them to see—” He suddenly realised that he might get Sherlock in a great deal of trouble if he told Lestrade how he’d come to find them.

Lestrade was frowning, looking over the reports. “Who sent them?”

“A woman named Amy Nolan.” Candour might be best, he decided. “Look, I’ve read these reports—”

“John,” he said, looking up. “Was Sherlock here?”

He sighed. “Look, Greg— you can’t still be thinking that he had anything to do with my brother’s death. Why are you holding him at arm’s length when he might help you solve it?”

“He’s not a suspect,” Lestrade said. “But I can’t tell you anything about the case. Officially, I’m no longer involved.”

“I heard. Who’s handling it now?”

Lestrade was silent for a long minute. He took a swallow of his tea and then stared down into the depths of his mug.

“Christ, I shouldn’t even say this,” he began. “If I say this to you, you’ll have to keep it to yourself.”

He smiled. “I’m afraid I’m not the only one who suspects something _dodgy_ is going on.”

“Of course.” Lestrade shook his head. “I knew Sherlock would see it. Listen, John. Your brother wasn’t doing anything wrong. He noticed something and realised it was part of a bigger picture. We think that’s why he was killed.”

“You mean, dirty cops. Changing records, which was how Amy became involved. Her death made James suspicious, and he started poking around.”

Lestrade licked his lips, took another swallow of tea. “Where is Sherlock?” he asked.

“He said he needed to talk to you. Something about the serial suicides, I think..” He nodded at the papers lying beside Lestrade on the sofa. “Was Amy Nolan murdered for that?”

Lestrade stood. “I’ve got to go.”

John was on his feet. “No. Not you, too. He ran out of here without telling me a bloody thing, and now you’re about to do the same. I realise that you can’t tell me everything, but just give me a hint. What the fuck is going on? I’m guessing you weren’t so much pulled off my brother’s case as pulled into the _bigger picture_ , whatever that may be. Does Andrew Harris have anything to do with this?”

Lestrade set his cup down, missing the table. It crashed to the floor. “Is that what Sherlock thinks?” He looked troubled.

John nodded. “Yeah, maybe. It looked like it to me. What are you thinking?”

“I’ve got to go.”

Raising his chin, John looked him in the eye. “If you’re going to look for Sherlock, I’m coming, too.”

Lestrade hesitated and for a moment John was sure he’d refuse, but then he just nodded.

As John pulled open the drawer, Lestrade said, “No gun, John. I’ll let you come with me, but you can’t bring a weapon.”

He slid the drawer shut. Slipping his jacket on, he opened the flat door and held it for Lestrade. “Thank you, Greg.”

Lestrade shrugged. “You’re welcome. I’ll pretend I don’t know about that gun.”

 

Nobody at NSY had seen Sherlock. They checked in at the coroner’s office and were told that Harris had left.

“Bloody hell,” muttered the DI as they climbed into cab. “This is exactly why I told him to keep his distance. He gets a notion in his head and goes off half-cocked, interviewing dangerous people.”

John smiled. “You didn’t really think that telling Sherlock Holmes _not_ to investigate something would actually deter him from doing just that, did you?”

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his eyes. “He couldn’t be involved. It wasn’t just that he was a suspect. He’s too torn up about James, too bent on impressing you, to think rationally.” 

John stopped staring out the window, turned to Lestrade with his mouth open. “Impressing _me_?”

“I’ve known Sherlock for years now, since he was twenty-five. He’s done drugs, gone through rehab, been in lock-up a few times, and finally got clean and made a name for himself as a detective. _Consulting detective,_ I should say. He’s rightfully proud of helping us out on quite a few cases. And it never seems to go to his head, either.” He smiled. “He’s just a dick all the time, regardless of the praise or the press. Doesn’t care about all that. It’s like an addiction with him, solving crimes. But,” he said, turning to face John, “I’ve never seen him quite like he was that day in my office, when I was reading the transcript of their calls. He was obviously smitten with your brother. I never could have imagined— and neither did he, apparently. It blind-sided him. He was devastated.”

“But you said… he was trying to impress me.”

Lestrade nodded. “Look, John, I don’t know how you and your twin rolled. I don’t begin to understand how you handled your romantic adventures. I’m just saying, the two of you together would have brought the great brain of Sherlock Holmes to a grinding halt. He wouldn’t have known what to do with twins. Hell, I’m not sure he knew what to do with James.”

John smiled. “I can think of a few things James might have done with him.”

“He loved your brother. And I think he loves you. I imagine you would have either fought over him or settled on… an unconventional arrangement.”

“Well,” said John. Because at that moment he couldn’t think of a single intelligent thing to say about Sherlock Holmes. “It’s not my intention to derail a great mind. But I think it’s James he still loves, not me. I’m just—”

“Yeah, I get it,” said Lestrade. “The two of you— twins, but still individuals. You get stroppy if somebody mixes you up. But you’re carrying the same fucking DNA! Do you think you’re so different from James? And what is so wrong about being like him? James was my friend. A good cop, a great human being. You’re so much like him that I can’t even process it. I forget who I’m talking to. How do you think Sherlock feels?” He drew a breath.

Before John could respond, he continued. “So, what do you want, John? Are you going to wait until you find someone who’s never met James before you fall in love? Are you going to reject Sherlock because you think he loved James? I saw the look on his face when he met you. If James hadn’t been with him, you would have approached him. Jesus Christ, are you daft? So what if Sherlock loved James? He’s looking at you now. You’re not just a stand-in for your twin. It’s you he wants. I keep thinking that somewhere James is smiling about this, that he’s happy that you’re here for Sherlock and annoyed that you two can’t figure this out. He loved you both. Do you think James would want you to walk away?”

This speech stunned John. He thought about James, now silent, the phantom pain in his leg, the memories they would never share. James would be happy, he decided, if he loved Sherlock. He’d anticipated it, maybe even hoped for it.

His breath caught in his chest. “I think… we need to find him. Quickly.”

 

It was beginning to get dark. The cab pulled up on Baker Street, in front of 221B. Lestrade got out of the cab and approached the door with no hesitation, raised the knocker and banged a few times. Soon the door opened and they were looking at an older woman, perhaps a bit shy of eighty, wearing a dressing gown.

“Mr Lestrade,” she said, smiling. She turned to John and gasped. “Oh, my God!”

“Mrs Hudson,” said Lestrade. “This is John Watson, the brother of James, whom you met.”

“Twins?” she gasped, clutching the front placket of her nighty close.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “We’re looking for Sherlock.”

“He hasn’t been home,” she said. “He was here at noon, but left a short while later.”

“Yes,” said John. “He came over to see me.”

She frowned at him. “He hasn’t been back.”

Lestrade had already started away. “If you hear from him, tell him to call me. It’s important.”

 

“Where to now?” John asked.

Lestrade was looking at his phone. “He might have gone to see Molly, but she’ll have left work by now.” He touched her number, waited for her to answer.

A short conversation confirmed that Sherlock had been at Bart’s in the morning. “We talked about Amy,” Molly said. “He seemed really sad. Not about Amy, but about James.”

But she didn’t know where he might have gone.

John felt like an idiot. _James would have known where he would go._

He closed his eyes, wishing for the voice he couldn’t hear any more. All he had left of his twin was the boxes piled in the corner of his bedsit, boxes full of things that James had touched, clothing he’d worn. He imagined how much it was going to hurt just to look through those things, to touch them, to smell James on them. Maybe, though, it would be good just to get that pain over, let it stab and burn and begin gradually fading to a gentle sadness. Surely he couldn’t grieve like this forever. Avoiding those boxes would only make it worse. He might never get over it, but eventually, it might hurt less.

And just like that, it came to him. He opened his eyes. “I think I know where he might be.”


	13. The Same Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this one, I think.

_It wasn’t a suicide_. Amy Nolan died because she had found something out and didn’t realise how dangerous it was. Sherlock had just talked to her sister, who confirmed what he suspected: Amy was still in remission. Her cancer hadn’t returned. She hadn’t killed herself.

The sister had complained to Lestrade about it. _Why are you not investigating this?_ she’d said to him. And he’d insisted that it was still an active case, but months later, nothing was being done. This was the first question he’d ask Lestrade.

Sherlock pushed the button and waited for the lift. The second question he needed to ask was about Harris. He was certain the DI knew about the medical examiner, knew the depth of his involvement in whatever was going on.

_If only I’d been paying attention properly,_ he thought. Anderson had told him something was going on. The fact that Anderson, the bloody bungler, had been the one to bring it to his attention was embarrassing. The fact that he hadn’t jumped on it, unraveled the whole mess, showed him what an idiot he’d been. He’d been confused about James, about John, about his own feelings. A case that he could have figured out from his chair, without leaving his flat, had gone right over his head.

The worst part was that he’d let John down. He’d wanted so badly to solve this for him, to show him he’d truly cared for James.

The lift let him out on Lestrade’s floor. It was late afternoon, and everyone was either packing up to leave, or already gone. The DI’s office was dark and empty. He checked Donovan’s desk. It was tidy, no papers or empty coffee cups. Gone home, then. He looked for Anderson, but he, too, had left.

_What next?_ He wanted to hand Lestrade the missing piece, solve the puzzle for him. For that, he needed something on Harris. He’d met him before, of course. Dealings with the coroner’s office were often necessary, and he wasn’t always on the best terms with them, but they all knew him. Of all of them, he’d known Harris the least, he reflected. The man was so nondescript as to be invisible. Plain and unassuming, he was a drudge for procedure and protocol. Meticulous in his work.

His name was on the medical report for each of the _serial suicides_ , as the press had named them. The cases were all unresolved, the mystery of how three unrelated strangers could have been forced to take poison still hanging there. What could Harris’s involvement have been? Had he altered the reports? If so, how? Most likely, he’d suppressed evidence that would have connected the suicides, some little detail only he would notice. For what purpose would Harris kill three strangers in such a bizarre fashion? Had he known them? A murderer needs a motive. Even serial killers usually start with someone they know before moving on to strangers. Perhaps there were earlier murders that could be connected to him.

His brain, that precision instrument, was failing him, getting stuck in pointless loops that all led nowhere. _I’m losing it,_ he thought.

Or maybe the man was just that brilliant. Criminals were caught because they made mistakes. Maybe Harris hadn’t made any. Maybe he had done everything perfectly.

But he had made a mistake. At least one. Amy had noticed, and James had believed her.

_Why didn’t you trust me?_ he thought. _You should have told me._

Maybe James just hadn’t been sure, wanted to confirm his suspicions before they got out of hand. But surely, he would have told Lestrade, wouldn’t he? Lestrade was his boss, his commanding officer, the one he would have gone to with even the smallest hint of anything vaguely _dodgy._ He must have told Lestrade.

_Oh._ Realisation _: he had._ And Lestrade would have said, _this needs to stay inside. No leaks._ And Sherlock could not know because this involved Professional Standards and he was an outsider. Making him a suspect in James’s death was the only way Lestrade could keep him out of something he needed to solve on his own.

_I’m an idiot_. He was thinking this when the lift opened on the third floor and Andrew Harris stepped inside. The man nodded to him and murmured, “Good evening.” Then he focused his eyes on the closed door. Sherlock kept his eyes ahead, but as he was standing to one side, slightly behind the man, he had the opportunity to observe him without being obvious about it.

He was surprised to notice that the man was not as old as he’d seemed before. His dark hair was slicked back, but there was no trace of grey. Dark eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses stared straight ahead. Grey suit, not expensive, but well-made. Black leather case, a bit battered. Average height, average weight, average everything. He had the aura of an accountant or a minor functionary in some obscure government office. Now that Sherlock actually looked at him, he could see that part of the man’s genius had been simply allowing everyone to underestimate him.

When the lift opened on the ground floor, they went out the front doors of the building, Sherlock a couple steps behind Harris. Once outside, Sherlock paused to light a cigarette, pretending not to notice which direction Harris was heading. The man headed down the street at a business-like clip. When he reached the corner and turned right, Sherlock followed.

He hadn’t pegged Harris for a drinking man, but he watched him go into a pub about a block from the NSY building, sit in a corner booth, order a beer and immerse himself in a newspaper. Sherlock, pretending not to notice him, took a seat at the bar, announcing in a voice loud enough for Harris to hear that he was expecting a friend. Surely someone from the Yard would come by and he could use them as cover for his surveillance.

He chatted with the barman, keeping Harris in the corner of his eye.

“Something to eat, Mr Holmes? Some chips, perhaps?”

He took a swallow of his Vodka Collins and glanced at the barman. This was not a pub he ordinarily frequented. Some of the Yarders liked to hang out here after work, and he’d been invited to join them a few times, though he rarely stayed for more than one drink. This barman was not familiar, but he recognised Sherlock.

The man smiled. “Sorry. I saw you on the telly once. The body in the skip. A few months ago, it was. You’ve got a memorable face.”

He nodded. “I’ll wait until my friend arrives. Then we’ll order something.”

“Let me freshen that up, then.” He nodded at Sherlock’s glass.

The man returned in a moment with a fresh drink. The pub was not busy. Sherlock chatted easily with the barman, feeling quite comfortable but always keeping an eye on Harris, who seemed to be meticulously going through every item on the financial pages.

He didn’t like pubs, as a rule. They made him feel edgy — the constant movement of people around him, the clinking of glasses, the background rumble of voices. This pub was not noisy or busy. He felt surprisingly relaxed.

That was when things began to feel _dodgy._

First he noticed that more people had arrived. The noise level had risen to a dull roar. How had he not noticed that? How long had he been here, sipping this watery drink, surveilling Harris? He took out his phone to check the time and was shocked that an hour and a half had passed. Was this his second or third drink? No one had asked him who he was waiting for or wondered why he was sitting at this bar, drinking an endless Vodka Collins. His eyes blurred. He blinked at his phone and found that he couldn’t remember his password.

More time passed. Now Harris had come over and was sitting next to him, sharing a pile of chips, talking like they were friends. He was saying something. Football. Or something. They were friends, talking about something. He tried to clear his mind, figure out why this was happening.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Harris was saying. He placed a supportive arm around his shoulders. “Need to get you home, mate.”

_Mate? Are we mates?_ He looked into Harris’s smiling face. _How did this happen?_ They were on the street now. Harris hailed a cab and helped him inside.

“Are you coming, too?” Sherlock asked as the man climbed in after him.

“You don’t look very steady,” Harris replied. “I’ll see you home.”

He felt indescribably grateful. “Thank you.” He’d never realised what a nice person Harris was. It made him almost tearful to think about what a good friend he was. Something was buzzing in the back of his brain, though. He closed his eyes.

The cab came to a halt. He opened his eyes and saw a block of flats that seemed vaguely familiar.

Harris was paying the cabby. “Come on, mate. Let’s get you inside.”

“Do I live here?” He looked up at the building and tried to remember why it was familiar.

“It’s okay,” Harris reassured him. “This is where you wanted to come.”

He was climbing stairs. Pieces of time seemed to have gotten misplaced. _Time travel must be like this_ , he thought. _I was at a pub. Now I’m on a stairway. Was there a cab in between?_

They were at the top of the first floor landing when he remembered. “This is where James lives.”

“You remembered.”

It was not a happy memory. He felt his knees giving way.

“Steady,” Harris said. “Almost there.”

He had a key, which he usedto open the door. Sherlock stood on the threshold, looking at the bare flat. No furniture. The smell of cleaning fluid. New paint. 

“James is dead,” he said, feeling everything he had felt that day.

Harris said nothing, just watched.

Sherlock walked carefully across the bare floorboards, hearing his footsteps echo. Sounds were loud here. Smells were loud. He could barely see. Pausing at the door of the bedroom, he wondered if time had gone backwards. If he pushed the door open, James might be there, buttoning his shirt. Or it might be too late.

It was too late. He pushed the door open.

The carpets had been pulled up and the flooring underneath scrubbed to remove the blood. He thought back to the scene, seeing James’s body across the bed, his eyes open and staring.

Unsteadily, he stepped into the bedroom and looked around, recalling every detail. There had been a mirror there, on the wall. Had James been looking into it when the murderer knocked? He was getting dressed. He must have gone to the door… Sherlock’s eyes moved back to the living room.

“It was you.”

Harris, standing in the doorway, nodded. “You’re so sad, Sherlock. I hate to see you like this.”

“You drugged me.”

“Yes.” He smiled. “Do you see how?”

The new barman, who knew his name. Who offered him chips, refreshed his drink while chatting with him. “You gave him a signal. He was your man. So, you don’t work alone.”

“The drug must be wearing off,” Harris replied.

“Why did you kill James?” he asked.

Harris smiled, his eyes unfathomably dark. “You already know. You figured it out.”

“I thought…” He felt himself beginning to sink. Then he was sitting on the floor. “I thought maybe you’d do a villain monologue, explain it all. How brilliant you’ve been. Maybe you could do that, for me.”

The man gave a genuine laugh. “Not really my style.”

“Did you do the others? The poisonings?”

“I am a man with many associates,” he replied. “I don’t generally get my hands dirty, though.”

“Did you shoot James?”

“Does it make any difference?” Harris was sitting beside him now, both of them on the floor. He opened his case. “Would it make you less sad if I told you I didn’t pull the trigger?”

A syringe, a needle, and a small bottle. “You’re going to kill me.”

“I have to.” He was filling the syringe from the bottle. “I know how sad you are, Sherlock. Nobody knows better than I. You came here because you wanted to say goodbye to James.” He eased a drop out of the syringe, expelling the air bubble. “ This is heroin, street grade. You’re going to give yourself an overdose and die. It will be tragic, but everyone will understand. You couldn’t solve the case. You let James down. And that was something you couldn’t live with.”

“Please,” he said. “I have to understand. Just tell me why. What this whole thing is about. Is it just for fun, for the thrill?”

The man was calmly regarding him, a slight smile on his lips. _A true sociopath_ , Sherlock decided. Untroubled by emotions and sentiments.

“I respect you,” Harris said. “We have the same passion for our work. It’s the puzzle, isn’t it? Human hearts, so pitifully weak. Always wanting to believe that people are basically good and decent. We know better, though, don’t we? We’re the four percent, the dispassionate ones. We think about killing our idiot neighbours, getting back at those who underestimate us, thinking we’re as ordinary as they are. Boring, ordinary people could never work out the details. We think about exactly how we would do it, visualise all the details. It’s almost erotic, the pleasure this gives us. The pure delight of leaving a puzzle for someone to solve, an incomprehensible, unspeakable deed that will make ordinary people shudder with horror. You understand.”

“I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Neither have I.” Harris smiled, cocking his head to the side a bit. “Not with my own hands, I mean. They all took the pills themselves. I have people who drug drinks and pull triggers for me, when necessary. You should be honoured, Mr Holmes. You are my first hands-on case.”

“I’m not like you.”

Harris sighed and tapped the syringe again. “No, but you want to be.” He turned Sherlock’s arm, examined the vein. “Some damage here, I see. Fortunately, I’m experienced in giving injections.” He felt his way down the arm, towards the wrist, until he found what he was looking for. “This will do. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock watched him insert the needle and push the plunger. His arms already felt like jelly. He wondered vaguely what drug had been in the vodka.

_John will be angry,_ he thought _. I told him I’d come back._ “I’m sorry,” he said.


	14. Welcome Home

John sat drinking a cup of awful hospital tea, listening as the two cops talked.

“Sherlock has a lot to thank you for,” Lestrade said.

Anderson made a noise, something halfway between a snort and a sigh. “I’m lucky Harris didn’t see me shadowing them. I had my cabby let me off around the corner, hoping he hadn’t noticed. He really hustled Holmes into the building. I almost didn’t get there in time.”

“Do you always carry naloxone?” John asked.

Anderson shrugged. “Where Sherlock is concerned… well, I try to be prepared for anything. He looked like he’d been drugged in the pub, so I could see where it was going.”

John smiled. “I’m glad you followed him. I’m not sure why you did, but was brilliant.”

The man looked like he might burst at the praise. He cleared his throat. “But I didn’t figure it all out. By the time I went to Lestrade with what little I knew, he told me to keep an eye on Sherlock, make sure he stayed away from Harris. I should have intervened before they got in the cab, but I wasn’t quick enough.”

“You did well, Anderson,” said Lestrade. “You contacted me in time. We all got there before it was too late. There’s still a lot to figure out, though. Sherlock tripped the wire before we were ready, and Harris isn’t likely to reveal much.”

“Sherlock seemed to think he was involved in the serial suicides,” John said. “You think it’s more than that?”

Lestrade nodded. “Harris is a just copycat. There is no direct evidence connecting him to the serial suicides. We’re pretty sure he’s been working with someone outside of the Met. That’s what we’ve been trying to solve. I think we could tie a lot of criminal activity to that person if we knew where to look. Harris’s MO was to study murders and to try to replicate them. A student of murder, you might say, observing and improving on the methods of others.”

“You can connect him to other cases?” John asked.

“A few, maybe. We’re pretty sure he forced Amy to take the poison, but it’s likely he got the idea from the other. I don’t think he planned to kill James until he started looking into Amy’s death.”

“Well, Anderson’s shot disabled him, but I don’t think he’ll die,” John said.

“He’ll go to prison for life,” Lestrade said. “But unless he talks, and I don’t know why he would, that won’t help us find this other. We don’t have a bargaining chip.”

John nodded. “Will you let Sherlock help?”

“He’s been involved with the investigation into the serial suicides. Or was, until we reached a dead end. I know it would make him happy to solve that." The DI smiled. "But he might be rather busy for a while. I think he’s seeing someone new. And he certainly deserves a bit of happiness.”

John felt himself blushing. “I wonder if they’d let me see him yet.”

“Mr Lestrade.” A tall man with an umbrella was walking towards them. He nodded at the DI. “My brother asks me to say: _find the barman. He might be the missing link_. I’m sure you understand.”

“The barman?” Lestrade nodded. “Thanks. I’ll get on it.”

The man gave him a chilly smile that was probably meant to be friendly and turned to Anderson. “Mister Anderson, I understand that it was you who saved my brother’s life. Allow me to thank you.” He inclined his head slightly, almost a sign of deference.

Anderson blinked nervously. “Of course, Mr Holmes,” he murmured.

Finally, he faced John, scrutinising him for a minute before speaking. “Doctor Watson, my brother is asking for you.” He narrowed his eyes. “He would not reveal to me what he wished to discuss with you.”

“Right.” John stood. The fact that both Lestrade and Anderson seemed intimidated by this man, who was obviously Sherlock’s older brother, made him a bit anxious, but he was not about to lose his nerve, or toanswer the unspoken question. Standing, he squared his shoulders. “It’s probably none of your business, anyway.” Nodding at the man, he smiled and started for the lift.

“Doctor.”

He turned and found Sherlock’s brother giving him what might have been a smile. “Yes?”

“My brother thinks highly of you.”

John shifted impatiently. “And? Is this the part where you warn me not to break his heart? Tell me you’ll take out a hit on me and make my body vanish mysteriously if I do?”

A genuine smile. “This is the part where I thank you. Welcome home, Captain Watson.”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard the door. _Not Mycroft again, thank God_. John looked worried, and he wondered how much he’d seen at the flat. His brother had filled him in on what happened. Anderson, of all people, had been his _deus ex machina_ , following him unnoticed and shooting Harris. He had administered the first dose of naloxone. Lestrade and John had appeared then, he was told, and an ambulance was called. An hour and a half of observation, another dose of naloxone, and further observation, after which he would be released into someone’s care. Not Mycroft, he’d made clear to all the medical staff. He would be released only into the care of Doctor John Watson, his personal physician. He’d insisted on that.

“He’s not very much like you,” John said. “Your brother, I mean.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again. “Why are we talking about him?”

“We’re not. I just didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Something I’d rather forget.” He opened his eyes and looked at John. “I guess I’ll have to thank Anderson.”

John took a seat at his side, chuckling. “He’s pretty chuffed about saving you, I think.”

Sherlock thought of something hilariously rude to say about Anderson, then stopped himself. It wouldn’t do to be stroppy with the person who’d saved him. He might be gracious about it, and John might like that. And maybe Anderson would stop calling him a freak now. Probably not, but it didn’t matter. Being alive was more important. John being here was what mattered.

“It wasn’t him, you know,” he said. “Harris is just a copycat.”

John nodded. “That’s what Lestrade said. A fellow who admires a murder, tries to improve on it.”

“I’m not like him.”

John frowned. “Of course you’re not. I know that.”

“He said I wanted to be like him. People always make me out to be like that— a sociopath, a freak. I may admire the brilliance of a crime, but that doesn’t mean I want to imitate it. I only want to solve it. I’m not—”

“I would have killed him,” John said a bit savagely. “He killed James and he would have killed you. I would have aimed at his head, not his leg.”

Sherlock looked at the expression on the doctor’s face and decided that he probably would not have missed. “You’re a better shot than James was.”

“How’d you know?”

“You’re more competitive. I could tell because of how he talked about you. You were his hero.”

John fell silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant. “Sherlock, I know that he will always be between us. I don’t want you to feel you owe me anything because of James. And I get that you see him when you look at me—”

“John,” he said, taking his hand. “I was with James for only a very short time, not long enough to really know him. I wish that I’d had that chance. And I now understand that you are not meant to replace what I lost.”

“Oh,” said John, his face flushing. “Yeah, I get it. It’s probably best if we don’t—”

Sherlock squeezed the hand that was pulling away from his. “I see you as an entirely new chance.” He felt tears gathering in his eyes. “You’re not his replacement. You’re _you_ , a person I look forward to knowing.”

“Oh,” John said again. But now he was smiling, a shy, hopeful smile. “I’d like that, too.”

“And I’d like you to do something for me. If you’re willing, that is.”

“Anything,” John said at once. “I mean, yeah.” He giggled. “I hope you’re not going to ask me to shoot someone.”

“That would certainly spoil the mood,” Sherlock said. “No, I’d like you to take me home.”

“Home?”

“Well, not to that dreadful bedsit _you_ call home.”

“Oh. Oh? You mean…”

“221B Baker Street, your new home.” He watched as understanding began to dawn. _Very expressive, that face,_ he thought. _Heart on his sleeve._ At least he wouldn’t have to guess what John was feeling.

“Oh. Oh!” John grinned. “Fast moves, Mr Holmes. I rather thought you’d give me the chance to flirt with you a bit before we moved in together, but if you’re sure—”

“You may flirt all you like, John. And other things too.” He pulled John towards him and kissed him. “I hope we will never stop flirting with one another.”

 

They went by John’s place to pick up a few of his things, then headed to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson hugged and kissed them both when she learned that John was to be Sherlock’s new flatmate.

“Will you be wanting the second bedroom?” She smiled hopefully.

John glanced at Sherlock, who nodded. “One bedroom is fine.”

“I’m so happy,” she wept. “I’ve been hoping that Sherlock would find himself a lovely man. Mrs Turner next door has married ones—”

“Erm, perhaps a lab,” Sherlock said. “The upstairs room, I mean. Better than using the kitchen. I’ll need a sink, of course—”

“And a fan,” Mrs Hudson said, frowning slightly. “I’m sure Doctor Watson won’t like the smells some of your experiments produce.”

“Oh?” John looked at him. “Smells?”

“A fan,” said Sherlock. “Excellent idea. And now, if you’ll excuse us, Mrs Hudson, we’ll need to get John settled in.”

As soon as the door was closed, Sherlock pinned his flatmate against the wall and kissed him long and deep. “Settling in, doctor?” he asked, low and throaty.

John’s eyes were still closed, somewhere inside that kiss.. “Aren’t you going to show me around? Are there walls? Rooms? Maybe a bed? I don’t know, because all I’ve seen is this darkened entryway.” He kissed Sherlock back, raising the level of arousal in the darkened entryway.

Sherlock pulled away with a gasp. “I’ll show you the bedroom,” he panted. “The sooner, the better.”

“How do you feel?” John asked, opening his eyes.“Your body’s been through a lot. Perhaps you should lie down for a while, have a rest.” It was Doctor Watson who frowned up at Sherlock.

“Only if you get in bed with me.” _No more hesitation_ , he’d decided. He’d moved too slowly with James, waited too long to figure out what to do about John, and now it felt right to move ahead. But perhaps John wasn’t ready. “Too soon?”

John grabbed his hand and began pulling him down the hall. “Show me the bed.”

In the bedroom, Sherlock had already pulled off his jacket and shirt when he noticed John wasn’t moving. Instead he was staring at the floor. Sherlock turned and looked at the bed, and thought he understood. This was where James had spent his last night. Maybe it would be better to use the other bedroom, or the couch… How could he have been so insensitive? Of course John didn’t want to share the bed his twin had occupied, where he and Sherlock had made love. It was insensitive to think— Maybe they should go to a hotel, or find a new flat entirely—

John was standing against him, hands on Sherlock’swaist, looking up at him. “Come back, love,” he said. “Stop thinking so much.”

“We can use the other bedroom,” he said.

John frowned. “Something unpleasant in the bed? One of your experiments, perhaps?”

“I thought that you… that it might be a bit… the bed, I mean.”

“The bed? Oh!” His face cleared. “Because you and James— no, it’s fine. That doesn’t bother me.”

“You just looked a bit lost,” Sherlock said. “I want you to be honest with me, John. We’ve both been through a lot. Don’t pretend you’re fine if you’re not.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking about James and you.” John chewed his lip for a moment. “All right. I have to be honest, too. You’ve seen James naked, but you haven’t seen me.”

He blinked. “Why would that matter?”

“This.” He stepped back, unbuttoning his shirt. “You haven’t seen this.” When he’d undone the last button, he let it fall from his shoulders, revealing a horrific scar— red, twisted flesh where a bullet had torn through his shoulder. “It became infected and they had to cut off more. It’s… ugly.”

Sherlock raised his hand towards the shoulder. “May I?” At John’s nod, he gently explored the landscape that was John’s left shoulder. When he had traced the edges, touched his finger in the crater where the bullet had exited, he turned John around and touched the entrance wound on his back. “You were kneeling over someone, tending their wound. You were shot from behind. The angle—”

“Matt Hawkins. The man I was tending. Shot through the throat. Died from the bullet that went through my shoulder. I never saw the boy who shot me, never noticed him behind me. He pulled a gun out of his pocket and shot me before it registered. One of my mates killed him.”

Sherlock bent and kissed the scar. “It’s beautiful.”

John huffed a sigh. “Only you would think so.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Come here, you gorgeous man,” John said. “Prepare yourself for some serious flirting.”

 

He couldn’t help but think of James when John was finally naked beside him. His hands explored the lovely curve of his bottom, the flat belly, the strong thigh muscles. His fingers discerned the difference between the ruined shoulder and the one that was whole. He was James, but not. His body carried scars that James didn’t have, had been touched by people James hadn’t known. He was unique.

He ran his hand up the perfect, muscular thigh. “Your leg,” he murmured. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes,” John said. ” But it’s not like it was. It’s more like a memory of pain, not the real thing.” He was silent for a minute. Then, “It’s still strange. The silence, I mean. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it.”

Sherlock thought he understood. “You were used to him being there in your mind, knowing what he was feeling, his joy, his worries, his pain. Now you feel alone.”

John nodded slowly. “Is this what everyone else feels all the time? He was my twin, but most people don’t have that. I never really understood until—” He gave a shuddering sob. “How do you bear it, being so alone?”

Sherlock pulled him close. “I always said that alone protected me, but that was because it was what I had, not because I wanted it. I just assumed I would always be alone, so I adapted. Once, for a few days, I began to understand what a lonely life I’d been living— and how unnecessary that was. Had James not reached out, I might never have discovered that.” He held John gently, feeling his sobs against his chest. “No one can replace the ones we have lost. But as we loved them, we make room for new loves.”

John gave him a watery smile. “Love me, Sherlock,” he whispered.

“I meant what I said,” Sherlock felt a bit breathless. “You are beautiful. So beautiful. Will you let me?”

John kissed him. “Anything you want, love.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” he replied. “ _Love_. Do you mean it?” He wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. They were both obviously aroused, and words fall easily from the lips of a lover in the throes of passion. Could this all be just hormones? infatuation? He was desperately trying not to compare John to James, but he remembered wondering about James’s affections. He’d been insecure that night, worried that he’d misinterpreted things, but he could not push those doubts onto John.

“I mean it, Sherlock. This isn’t just sex. Not for me.” He smiled into Sherlock’s eyes. “And it wasn’t for James, either. Don’t doubt it. He loved you. And so do I.”

“Will you let me show you?” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes. Oh, God, yes.”

He slid lower on John’s body, kissing his way down the golden hair that covered his chest and abdomen, down to the thighs (no bruise). He spread John’s legs and licked the inside, the tender skin between his legs. John gasped and spread his legs wider.

“Please, Sherlock,” pleaded John. “I want you inside me.”

He examined the cock he was about to take into his mouth. Smiling, he noted that John was his brother’s twin in all the right ways. Thick and heavy, the cock begged to be touched. He did, relishing John’s moans.

“Now,” he whispered. “Please.”

Sherlock slid the bedside drawer open and found the tube of lube. “You’ve done this before,” he said.

“Obviously,” John gasped. “I’m ready for you. Don’t be too gentle, love. I can take it.”

He lubed his fingers and slid them inside of John, being careful even though John was begging for him, insisting he was ready.

“Patience,” he rumbled against John’s thigh. “I’m enjoying this.”

When he decided that his partner could not wait another moment, he entered him. The warmth and tightness of John overwhelmed him, and he didn’t think he would last. When John cried out and warm wetness spread between them, and Sherlock began to push in earnest, coming within seconds.

They lay in a sticky afterglow, spent and satisfied. Arms around one another, they slept.

 

When he woke in the morning, John felt more rested than he had since leaving for Afghanistan. _I’m home,_ he thought. _This is home._

Sherlock stirred beside him, and opened his eyes. “Good morning, love,” he said.

For a few minutes there were only sleepy caresses and kisses.

“What shall we do today?” Sherlock asked at last.

“Hmm. Could we just stay in bed?”

“Excellent plan, John.” He slid to the side of the mattress and sat up. “Maybe a shower first. I feel that I haven’t fully washed off the hospital smell.” He tugged at the admission bracelet. “Should have cut this off last night. I must have been preoccupied.”

“You were.” John scooted up behind him, kissed the back of his neck. “I could use a shower too. And breakfast.” He stretched luxuriously. “Loo, shower, breakfast, bed. Sounds like a plan.”

“It would be efficient to shower together,” Sherlock said. “Would it not?”

“True,” said John. “Think of all the water we’ll save.”

The front door slammed. Feet pounded up the stairs.

“Well, the best laid plans…” Sherlock muttered, slipping on his dressing gown.

John hunted for his pants. “Who could that be? It’s rather early for visitors, isn’t it?”

“Those were Lestrade’s steps you heard. He’s standing outside the door right now, realising that it’s a bit early to knock, but in ten seconds he will decide that this is too important to text or call. Three… two… one…”

There was knocking. Vigorous knocking. John pulled on his track bottoms and a t-shirt and followed Sherlock into the sitting room.

“Good. You’re up,” said Lestrade. “There’s been another.”

“Another?” John asked.

Lestrade did not look surprised to see him, he noted. In fact, he smiled a bit. “Good morning, John, Sherlock. Another suicide, like the last three.”

“Where?” Sherlock asked.

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.”

Sherlock smiled at John. “Change of plans, love.”

John grinned back at him. He supposed it would always be like this, their intimacies interrupted by murder…

“Come along, then, John.” Sherlock was looking impatient. No, eager, happy. “The game is on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually leave author notes explaining things, but I'm sorry about killing James. He was lovely, but this story required him to die. I have thought about an AU of this AU where the three of them have to sort things out, but that isn’t this story.  
> I wanted his death to mean something. He might have had cancer, or been in an accident, but I didn’t want to kill him off just so Sherlock and John could get together. I decided that his death should be a mystery instead, one that Sherlock would try to solve, while simultaneously figuring out what he felt about John. That required a case, but I did not intend that to be the focus of the story.  
> I set the story in the months before BBC Canon John and Sherlock meet, during the events just before SiP begins. That episode follows this. They are together now.


End file.
